That was what made Clay admire her. It was unusual for such a beautiful young woman to ignore the tricks that most of her sort used on men. As they talked during that ride, he quickly discovered that the reports he had heard of her intelligence had not been exaggerations.
She looked at him now and asked directly, “Do you ever beat your slaves, Uncle Clay?”
“No.” Clay thought about the thing, then shook his head. “I hate slavery, Deborah. If I had my way, I’d set every one of the slaves here at Gracefield free today.”
His simple statement stunned Deborah. She stared at him but saw that he was completely serious. “I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said finally. “But you’re not a typical Southern planter, are you?”
“No, not really. But there are more like me than you think. Robert E. Lee, for example, feels the same way. Of course, most planters are blind to the evils of slavery, just as they’re blind that our peculiar institution is leading us to economic disaster.” He talked quietly as they rode over the plantation, and Deborah was forced to rethink her position on the question of the Southern slaveholder. She sensed a generous spirit in Clay Rocklin, which did not fit with her previously firm opinion that all slave owners were cruel men.
Clay led them down a narrow lane lined with first-growth fir trees that arched over them. “Somebody I want you to meet,” he said as they turned toward a cabin that lay in a clearing. “You’ve met the so-called aristocracy of the South. You’ve met some of the slaves on the place. But I want you to meet another class of people. I think you’ll like them.”
Deborah asked no questions but was soon being introduced to the Yancy family. Buford Yancy welcomed Clay and, when introduced, beamed a welcome to Deborah. “Come in, Miss Deborah. Always glad to meet Mr. Rocklin’s kin.”
Deborah tried to sort out the children, who only stared at her shyly at first, then came out of their shells as she smiled and began to talk to them. All of them looked like Buford. “You have beautiful children, Mrs. Yancy.” Then she was startled to hear the Yancy children all break out in giggles. Buford Yancy grinned shyly, saying, “Now I hope you take notice of that, all of you. Your pa looks so young he gets mistook for his own daughter’s husband!”
“Oh, I didn’t—” Deborah blushed, throwing a horrified glance at the dark-haired woman. She was no more than twenty-five, and she was a beauty. But there was a twinkle in her green-gray eyes.
“Melora is a mother to the children—a second mother,” Clay said with a fond look at the young woman. “Actually, she’s Buford’s oldest daughter.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, Miss Steele,” Melora said, smiling.
“You’re not the first to think as you have.” Then she turned to Clay. “I don’t think you’ve ever come here anytime except just before mealtime, Mister Clay.”
“My mama didn’t raise no fools,” Clay said, grinning.
Soon Deborah was seated at the crowded table. She tasted what Melora called “winter crab gumbo,” which she dipped from a large aromatic pot onto a bed of freshly steamed rice. There also was cold ham and cheese with toasted biscuits. The fresh milk was rich and sweet, and when Melora set down a huge slice of pumpkin pie, she held up her hands, protesting, “Please, Melora—no more! I’ve got to get into my clothes when I get home!”
After the meal, Buford said, “Clay, I’ve got a new litter of pigs from that big red boar of yours. Turned out real good. Come on, I’ll show you.” The men left, and Deborah offered to help clean the dishes. Melora protested that they could wait, but soon the two of them were elbow-deep in the soapy water. As they worked, Deborah probed at her hostess. She was very good at such things, but Melora was equally adept at keeping her own counsel.
“How do you like the Rocklins?” Melora asked, and that kept Deborah talking for some time. She gave more information about herself than she knew, and as they finished, Melora said, “You haven’t met Mister Clay’s oldest boy, Denton. He’s the one who’s most like his father, but—” She broke off, and Deborah picked up on the fact that something lay between Clay and his son. By the time the men returned, the children all began prompting their father to take them to see the beaver dam as he had promised. Buford groaned, saying, “Seems funny to me that you kids can forget everything I say about the work around here, but you jist let me mention some kind of holiday in a passin’ kind of way—and you’ll nag a man to death.” He finally agreed, and when the children all had donned their heavy coats, he asked, “Don’t reckon you’d wade across twenty acres of briars to see a beaver dam, would you, Miss Steele? No, I didn’t think so. Well, come on, you kids!”
Melora set a cup of coffee out for Clay, then poured two more for herself and Deborah. Clay sipped his carefully, then asked, “Got anything for me, Melora?”
A quick flush touched the smooth cheeks of the young woman, which aroused Deborah’s curiosity. “Oh, not now, please. Miss Deborah doesn’t want to waste her time.”
Deborah was intrigued and asked at once, “What is it?”
“Can I tell her, Melora?” Clay asked. When he got a slight nod, he said, “Melora has a real gift for writing, Deborah. She lets me read it from time to time.” He turned back to Melora. “Let’s see it. What have you got?”
Melora gave a helpless look at the pair, saying, “Oh, it’s nothing. Just things that come to me.” At their urging she went to the bookcase stuffed with books of all sorts, then came back with an inexpensive notebook. She handed it to Clay, but he shook his head. “Read it to us.”
Melora gave Deborah a shy look but opened the notebook and began reading in a clear, easy voice. It was a very simple essay, more like an entry from a journal, and at first Deborah thought, What does Clay see in this? But as the young woman went on, she began to find a beauty in the prose. Deborah had read Emerson and Thoreau, and Melora’s style reminded her a little of Thoreau. It described a visit Melora had made to take some cool springwater to her father as he plowed in the fields. As Melora read on, Deborah realized that this young woman had a rare gift! She could smell the rich loam of the earth or see the ragged clouds race across the sky. When she described finding a young raccoon with his paw caught in a steel trap and confessed how she had released him, Deborah was deeply moved. Then Melora read on, speaking of a coon as some sort of symbol of all men—and Deborah knew for certain that Melora had that special genius that was given to only a few: the ability to communicate truth and honest emotion.
As the three sat there, Melora reading and the other two listening, Deborah suddenly became aware that Clay was different. She had seen him with his family and soon discovered that he and his wife were totally alien. There was no mistaking the harsh light in Ellen Rocklin’s eyes when she looked at Clay—nor the lack of any affection at all in Clay toward her.
Now, Deborah saw, Clay was totally absorbed in Melora. His coffee cup rested in his hand, forgotten, and his dark eyes were fixed on her face. He had built a wall around himself, Deborah knew, but now the wall was down. He had forgotten that Deborah was there, and suddenly the girl from the North knew that Clay Rocklin felt a great deal for Melora Yancy—perhaps even more than was proper. She knew instinctively that this was a scene that had been repeated many times, the two of them together. Melora had spoken briefly of how Clay had been kind to her even when she was a child, bringing her books and small gifts.
Suddenly Melora lifted her eyes to look at Clay. She had forgotten the third party in the room, Deborah saw, and her face was open, filled with something that she kept hidden when she was aware of it. But it was evident, at least to Deborah, that her feelings for Clay Rocklin went deep—a fact that perplexed Deborah. Clay was so much older, and the young woman was attractive enough to have found a husband long ago. Deborah resolved to probe deeper, her romantic spirit and natural curiosity alerted.
“Oh, that’s enough of this!” Melora laughed shortly, gave a quick glimpse toward Deborah, and got to her feet. “I feel like a fool reading my scribbling to you,” she
said, coming back to sit at the table. Her eyes gleamed with a sudden humor, and she said, “I’ll write a part for you, Mister Clay. You can be the innkeeper. You can rant and roar and throw poor Joseph and Mary out into the cold.”
“Just let me at it!” Clay grinned. “I’ll tear a passion to tatters! The stage missed something when I decided to be a cotton farmer, but now’s my big chance!” He ran on, laughing at his own foolishness, the first time Deborah had seen him in such a mood, and she marked it as another piece of evidence that he was one man when he was at Gracefield, and another when he was at the Yancy cabin.
Soon they left the cabin, and on the way back home, Deborah spoke of the Yancys. “They don’t own any slaves,” she remarked. “Is it because they think it’s an evil—or are they just too poor?”
“Both, I guess.” Clay shook his head with a puzzled air. “It’s odd, Deborah. Buford has told me many times he’ll never own a slave, but he’s also told me that nobody is going to tell him that he can’t own a slave. There are lots of men like that in the South. If it came right down to it, they’d fight for the right to do as they please. That’s what states’ rights is all about, isn’t it?”
When they arrived at Gracefield, she thanked Clay and insisted on taking the saddle from Lady and giving her a rub-down. She was engaged in this when Rena came in, dressed in a pair of overalls that had obviously belonged to one of her brothers. “Hello,” she said shyly. “Did you have a good ride?”
“Oh yes! Lady is a wonderful mount, isn’t she? And your father showed me all over Gracefield. I expect he takes you riding pretty often, doesn’t he? You’re lucky to live here, Rena, with horses to ride and lots of things to do.”
Rena gave Deborah a strange look and came to stand closer. “I guess so.” She sounded so uncertain that Deborah gave her a closer look, and at once she saw that the girl was unhappy. Quickly she said, “I’m through with Lady. Why don’t you show me your room, Rena? I’ll bet it’s nice.”
Rena looked surprised but brightened up at once. “It’s not much,” she said diffidently. But when Deborah insisted, she led the way to a bright, cheerful room on the corner of the second floor. The room had a large dormer window and was decorated with white molding, which set off the yellow wallpaper. It was a child’s room, with several stuffed animals on top of the furniture and the wallpaper featuring small ducks and white geese. Deborah made much of it, saying, “It’s the very nicest room I’ve seen in the whole house, Rena!”
Rena looked around with surprise, as if it were a room she’d never seen before, and then said, “Would you like to see some of my pictures?” The two of them sat down on the bed, and Rena pulled out canvasses and sketch pads filled with drawings. They were very good, revealing a talent for drawing that Deborah praised. “I can’t draw a stick, myself,” she laughed, “but you have real talent. Do any of the rest of your family paint or draw?”
This led Rena to speak of her family, and she revealed a great deal of herself in her description. She spoke warmly of her brothers, but hardly mentioned her mother. When she spoke cautiously of her father, her eyes revealed what Deborah recognized as a deep longing. Deborah soon had the whole story, how Ellen Rocklin had in effect abdicated her responsibility as a mother years ago. If Clay had abandoned his family physically, Ellen had done the same emotionally and spiritually. Although Rena didn’t realize it, she revealed to the quick mind of her guest how she had missed having a mother and how she had hated her father for leaving them. The story of Buck’s attack on Clay came out, and Rena’s eyes grew warm as she spoke of how her father had let her help him fix his books and how he sometimes read to her. Then she said uncertainly, “Maybe I shouldn’t spend so much time with him. Dent says it’s wrong. He says that he doesn’t deserve to be trusted.”
What an awful, pompous boor Mr. Denton Rocklin must be! Deborah thought with a stab of contempt, but said, “Oh, I don’t think that’s right, Rena. I like your father very much.”
“You do?”
“Why, certainly. He made some bad mistakes, but we have to give people a second chance, don’t we? You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think your father is a very lonely man. And I think it’s fine that you’re spending a lot of time with him.”
A look of relief washed across Rena’s face, and she smiled at Deborah, saying, “He’s really changed! I know he has! And I’m going to tell Dent to mind his own business!”
Good for you! Deborah thought but said no more. Then Rena asked, “Would you do something for me? Something really big?”
Deborah hesitated, but when she saw the eager look in the girl’s eyes, she said, “If I can, Rena.”
“Ask Mama if I can go to the Christmas party in Richmond with you.” She began speaking quickly, as if to forestall any arguments. “Mama thinks I’m such a baby! She says I’m too young for a ball, but I don’t think fourteen is too young, do you, Deborah?”
“Well, I don’t think so, Rena—but I can’t go against your mother on something like this.”
“She doesn’t really care! She just doesn’t want to have to watch after me. But if you tell her that you want me to go and that you’ll watch me, she’ll say yes. Oh, please, Deborah! I don’t want to stay home by myself!”
Deborah’s father often said, “Daughter, your spiritual gift is meddling!” And she realized that it was true. Something told her not to get involved with the internal affairs of the Rocklin family, but she was not far enough away from the age of fourteen to forget what a trying time it was. The pleading expression on Rena’s face was more than she could bear, so she suddenly laughed and hugged the girl. “We’ll do it, Rena! And you can get your father to give you a new dress.”
“Oh, he’d never do that!”
“Fathers will do anything for their daughters, Rena,” Deborah said confidentially, nodding. “But you have to butter them up a little.”
“Butter them up how?”
“Oh, sit on their lap, run your fingers through their hair, tickle their ears. They like that a lot.” She laughed at Rena’s expression and hugged her again. “It’s something you can work on. Now let’s go talk to your mother.”
Major Robert Anderson was a lean, clean-shaven, graying veteran, noted both for an excellent combat record in the Black Hawk and Mexican wars and for a mildly bookish quality that was somewhat rare among army officers. He was also a Southerner, of Virginian ancestry, and some of the officers at Fort Sumter told each other that he had been chosen by Secretary of War Floyd because he was proslavery.
Gideon stood with his commanding officer on the battlements of Fort Moultrie in Charleston Harbor. It was cold, with a stiff wind pushing against them, and Major Anderson had to raise his voice as he explained the military situation to his newest officer.
“A poor way to spend Christmas, Major Rocklin,” Anderson said, “but we’ve got no choice.” He went on to explain carefully what he was doing in Charleston, most of which Gid knew already. “South Carolina seceded from the Union, as you know, five days ago. The next step they will make is to take over these Union forts.”
“You really think they’ll attack, sir?”
“No doubt about it. And look at what we have—our main base here at Fort Moultrie is completely vulnerable to land attack from the rear.” Anderson turned to face his subordinate, remarking, “My father, Captain Richard Anderson, defended this fort during the Revolution. Now I have to defend it from our own people—and it cannot be done!”
“I take it you have a plan?”
“Yes. Clearly the most advantageous place to make a stand is Fort Sumter. It’s an island fort, only about three miles from Charleston, but we have heavy guns there. Since we can’t hold Fort Moultrie, we’ll shift all the men to Fort Sumter.”
“Yes, sir. When are you thinking of moving?”
Anderson was a sober man, burdened with an awesome responsibility, but he smiled slightly as he answered Gid’s question. “Tonight.”
>
Gid was startled. “On Christmas night?” Then he nodded.
“No one will expect us to do such a thing. And I remember what Tom Jackson said when we were in Mexico—always try to do what your enemy will never suspect!”
Anderson nodded absently, then said quietly, “Take charge of loading the equipment, Major Rocklin.” He turned to go but hesitated, then said, “Merry Christmas, Major.”
“‘And God bless us every one,’ as Tiny Tim put it,” Gid replied, and then the two men moved away from the biting sea wind.
“I don’t see why I have to keep track of an old abolitionist!”
Denton and David had come back from their trip late in the afternoon, and Dent was informed by Susanna that he would be expected to escort his cousin Deborah Steele to the Christmas ball. Dent had other plans—he had been engaged in a lively contest with Jackie Terrel for the favors of Mary Ann Small. “She’s probably as ugly as homemade soap,” he grumbled, then brightened up as he thought of a solution. “Let David take her, Grandmother.”
“He’s taking Lorella Ballentine,” Susanna said briskly. An impish thought came to her, and she said, “It will be a good deed for you, Denton. The poor girl is rather homely. I’d venture a guess that she never had a real live young man to take her to a ball. It’s Christmas. You can bring some cheer into a dreary life. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?”
Dent grumbled, but he knew that he was doomed. He could get around his mother, but he had never been able to circumvent any plan that his grandmother decided on. He went off to dress, and Susanna quickly told the other members of the family what she’d done. David fell to laughing at once, and the others thought it would serve Dent right. He was always playing some practical joke on others, and it was only fair for them to get him back!
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 27