by Jane Peart
And then there was the matter of Garnet, whose relationship with Malcolm puzzled Rose. What part would she play in their lives?
Granted, they would live separately from the big house in this small, exquisite cottage. Still, they would take their meals with the family, and most of the activities would involve constant contact with Malcolm's parents and brothers. This, of course, would also include Garnet.
Malcolm, caught up in the excitement of his homecoming, had seemed unaware of Rose's growing feeling of isolation. Seated down the length of the dinner table from her, he could not know how their easy conversation excluded her. He did not seem to realize that she was not yet a part of his world. The world that was so familiar to Garnet, for instance.
The picture of Garnet tonight thrust itself into Rose's consciousness. In the soft glow of the candles she looked particularly appealing—the satin sheen of her skin, the curls bobbing around her heart-shaped face, her white teeth gleaming and eyes shining with youthful mirth as she laughed at some witty remark made by Malcolm.
Garnet was so fresh and alive that she made Rose feel dull by comparison—a feeling Rose had never experienced before in the company of others.
Rose felt a twinge of jealousy, thinking of the intimate way Garnet had leaned toward Malcolm, hearing the intimate laughter that came from their end of the table where they sat across from each other, on either side of Sara.
Immediately Rose was repentant. It was wrong to feel jealous. Garnet was her sister-in-law, as well as Malcolm's, not a rival! Rose wanted to love her, if that were possible, yet Rose was not sure Garnet cared one whit whether she did or not.
Just then Tilda's soft, shy voice interrupted Rose's confused thoughts. "My! Missus, you has de mos' pretties' hair I ever did see. Us all thinks Marse Malcolm done bring hisself home some pretty bride!" she chuckled.
"Well, thank you, Tilda." Rose was surprised and touched.
"Yes'm. Us all worried some when we heard he wuz bringin' home a lady from the No'th. Yes'm, we wuz."
The click of the door in the adjoining room cut short any further opinions Tilda might have given her new mistress about the rumors and speculations that had taken place among the people at Montclair before her arrival. Tilda leaned down and whispered, "Dat be Marse Malcolm. So I be done now." She put down Rose's brush and slipped quietly out of the room.
As Rose looked into the mirror, she saw Malcolm's handsome face in the place of Tilda's round, black one. Their eyes met. He put his hands on her shoulders. Smiling, he leaned forward, gathering a handful of her shining hair and burying his face in it. Then with a gesture like a caress, he lifted it away from her neck and kissed the soft nape. At the touch of his warm lips on her bare skin, a deliciously sensuous shiver trembled through Rose.
She raised her arms, capturing his face in her hands, and turned her head slightly so that he could kiss her cheek, the lobe of her ear. She closed her eyes and sighed as he murmured her name.
Before Malcolm, Rose had never understood the overwhelming love that could exist between a man and woman. To her, marriage had been wrapped in mystery, in romantic symbolism. Since he had gently introduced her to the glorious completeness of married love, she had discovered in herself a depth of feeling she had not thought possible.
"My darling," Malcolm whispered. "Our first night in our new home, our first night at Montclair—"
She laughed softly. "Our first night in 'Eden'."
"Come," he said gently, getting to his feet and lifting her by her hand to stand beside him. Over his shoulder she could see into the bedroom, the one they would share here in this perfect gem of a little house—see the high tester bed with its filmy curtains, its ruffled coverlet, and mounds of lacy pillows.
As she started to follow him, she glanced back at the dressing table into the mirror and saw the two of them reflected there. Then her eyes went to the silver brush, comb, and hand mirror, a wedding gift from Malcolm, engraved with her new initials, "R. M." Oddly enough, she thought, they were the same as before—R .M., Rose Meredith; R. M., Rose Montrose. Yet everything else had become new.
"Come, darling," Malcolm repeated, giving her hand a gentle tug.
Was she mistaken or was Malcolm's Virginia accent more pronounced now than it had been a few hours ago? Had being home at Montclair already begun to change him?
Quickly Rose brushed away the tiny flicker of fear that flashed through her mind. Moving into Malcolm's embrace, she promised herself to stop imagining things, putting significance on every glance, every word, every nuance in this strange new world she had entered. It was Malcolm's world and she wanted to be a part of it.
The minister's words spoken to them on their wedding day sprang to remembrance as, arms around each other's waist, she and Malcolm walked into their bedroom. "Henceforth, you will belong entirely to each other—one in mind, one in heart, and one in affection."
That's how she wanted it to be for them. With God's help, it would be.
chapter
9
"CHRIS'MAS GIF'! Chris'mas gif', Miss Rose!"
Tilda's voice sang out the traditional Virginia Christmas greeting, awakening Rose on the Christmas morning of 1857. She opened her eyes, raised herself on her elbows, and saw her maid standing at the foot of her bed, her wide grin making a white crescent in her shiny black face.
Christmas day! Rose thought. My first in Virginia, my first at Montclair, my first as a married lady! And, she added wistfully, my first away from home.
She turned and saw that the other side of the bed was empty, the pillow still bearing the imprint of Malcolm's dark head. Instinctively Rose wished he had been the one to awaken her with a kiss and "Christmas gift!"
"Time you wuz up and dressed, Miss Rose. The peoples will be gatherin' outside de big house Tore long fo' dey Chris'mus presents. Ole Marse stands out on the veranda and they alius come up one at a time to present deyselves. You bes' be right dere 'longside Marse Malcolm," Tilda said as she moved about the room, drawing back the curtains and stirring up the fire that was already crackling merrily in the small fireplace.
"Where is Mr. Malcolm?" Rose asked.
"He and Mr. Leighton went out ridin' early, early!" Tilda told her as she brought Rose's coral-colored velvet morning robe and set her slippers on the top step of the wooden stairsteps on the side of the bed. "Dat Mr. Leighton couldn't wait to try out dat new horse Old Marse done gib him fo' Chris'mas." Tilda shook her head. "Horses, horses, seems like dat's all dat young man lib for. Don't it beat all?"
Leighton, Malcolm's other brother, was home for the holidays from Virginia Military Institute. He was as big, blond, and brawny as Bryce, with the same graceful manners and easygoing personality.
Tilda held out the robe for Rose to put on. "I set yo' tray of tea and biscuits on de table in front of de fire, so you'd be nice and warm. Big breakfus later, but I thought yo' might need a bite aforehand."
Rose pushed aside the covers, swung her legs over the edge, then started to stand to get into her robe. As she did so, she swayed slightly. Tilda caught her elbow to steady her.
"What's de matter, Miss Rose? You feelin' po'ly?" She shot Rose a suspicious look.
"No, I'm fine. Just felt a little dizzy for a minue. Probably got up too quick."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure, Tilda," Rose spoke sharply. Sometimes Tilda's surveillance of her every move got on Rose's nerves. But when she saw the instant hurt in the girl's eyes at her tone, she gave her a reassuring smile. "Really, I'm fine. And thank you for fixing such a nice place for me."
"Yes'm." Tilda was all smiles again.
Rose seated herself in the wing chair and poured the steaming, fragrant tea from the small silver pot into a fragile china cup. She sat sipping her tea as Tilda shook the quilt, plumped the pillows, and straightened the covers on the bed, chattering away like a magpie.
Rose had grown fond of the girl even though there were times when her constant presence in the little house was tiresome.
The same could be said for Malcolm's manservant, Joseph. Rose simply could not treat them the way she saw some Southerners treating them—as pieces of furniture, or inanimate objects.
It seemed ironic to Rose that the purpose of allowing newlyweds to live at Eden Cottage was to ensure prolonging their honeymoon privacy when, in truth, they were never alone. But that confirmed her argument that Negroes were not considered people here, merely property.
"What is you wearin' dis mawnin', Miss Rose?" Tilda asked, standing in front of the armoire.
"Something bright, I think," Rose said. "My red merino would be nice."
While Tilda fetched hot water her bath, Rose finished her breakfast, contemplating the day ahead. Malcolm had forewarned her of some of the traditional rituals at Montclair—giving each servant on the place the gift of a ham, molasses, blankets, and sweets, then the family breakfast and gift exchange in his mother's suite. In the afternoon they would be going over to Cameron Hall to attend the annual open house.
It disturbed Rose to learn there were no plans to drive to Williamsburg to attend church services. It seemed strange to celebrate the birthday of the Christ Child so extravagantly, yet not honor Him in worship.
Rose sighed. It was the one flaw in her otherwise perfect relationship with Malcolm. He was so fine and yet he had never made a formal commitment of his life to the Lord. She remembered the many discussions they had had before their marriage. In spiritual matters Malcolm had said that unless he were convinced, he could not make such a commitment; that he believed with Emerson that "God enters by a private door into every individual." Malcolm could not be persuaded, pressured, or coerced. In any event Rose realized it is only by God's Spirit that one comes to believe and accept. Still, she could wish that she and Malcolm were one in this important area as they were in every other.
Rose tried to conquer her own slight melancholy, remembering Christmases past in Milford with her own family. She was a Montrose now and must participate fully in the festivities of the day with her husband's family, she reminded herself firmly.
"Better we hurry, Miss Rose," Tilda warned as they heard in the distance the resonant sound of the plantation bell summoning the Montrose Negroes from the yard to the house.
Rose finished buttoning the cuffs of the jacket of the raspberry-colored merino dress. The stand-up collar lined with white niching and fitted bodice were edged with black velvet in a Roman key design.
"You is some handsome dis mawnin', Miss Rose," Tilda exclaimed, giving a final pat to Rose's hair arranged in a chignon secured in a snood tied in a flat velvet bow.
Tilda was holding Rose's short black velvet cape for her when Rose said, "Before I go, I have a Christmas gift for you, Tilda."
Tilda looked surprised. "But Ole Marse is de one to gib me a gif', Miss Rose."
"But this is a special one from me to you." Rose went to the dressing table where she had wrapped and concealed the package Aunt Van had sent. Rose had written her aunt, requesting that she find a children's Bible, one like she herself had had as a child, with pictures in bright colors.
She had not missed the many curious glances Tilda had given Rose's own Bible when dusting and straightening the bedside table. Several times Rose had observed the girl touching the leather-bound volume with a tentative finger, and once Tilda had even opened it and smoothed the pages. It was then Rose had decided that Tilda, who had become quickly devoted to her young mistress, must have a Bible of her own.
Rose had wrapped it in a gaily patterned scarf she knew Tilda would like to wear at gatherings in the quarters. As she handed it to her and watched her unwrap the package, she was shocked to see the girl's happy look of expectation turn to one of sadness. Her big eyes widened and filled with tears. With a small choked cry, Tilda threw her apron over her face and sank to her knees on the rug in front of Rose.
Stunned, Rose stood still, not knowing what was the matter.
"Tilda! What in the world!" she exclaimed. She bent over the huddled figure. "Tell me, for heaven's sake! What is the matter?"
A moan followed by loud sobs shook the small frame.
Rose knelt down beside her, placing one arm around the shaking shoulders.
"Come now, Tilda, I want to know what's wrong." She tugged gently at the apron that covered the weeping girl's face.
"Oh, Missus!" Tilda sobbed. "You is so good to me!"
"Well, that's nothing to cry about, is it? You're good to me, too, Tilda. Don't you like your present? I wanted to give you something to tell you how much I think of you. I wanted you to have your own Bible so you could read about Jesus as I do every day. One that belongs just to you."
The girl sniffed piteously. "Yes'm. But, but . . . I doan' know—"
"Don't know Jesus?" Rose was aghast. "But I hear you singing hymns about Him."
"No'm. I mean, yes'm. I sure do know de Lawd. Preacher Halsey, he come here mos' every summer and teach us all about Moses, Noah and de Flood and about de Lawd Jesus, too. But. . . but I doan' know—" and she burst into fresh tears and shook her head.
"What is it? You must say!" Rose insisted.
The girl lifted her face, wiping her tears with a fisted hand like a small child. "I cain't read, Miss Rose. I doan' know how!" she wailed.
Rose sat back on her heels, relieved.
"Oh, Tilda, is that all? My goodness, I can teach you to read! I used to teach the younger girls at the school I went to back home. Then you can learn more about Noah and Abraham and Moses, and most of all, about the Lord Jesus." She patted the girl's shoulder comfortingly. "Now, dry your tears. We'll start the lessons right after the holidays." Rose got to her feet. "In the meantime, you can look at the pictures."
"Yes'm." Tilda was smiling now as she scrambled to her feet. Then she dropped a little curtsy. "Thankee kindly, Miss Rose. I doan' never had nothin' as nice as this," she said with shining eyes. "Jes' wait till I shows that stuck-up Lizzie!"
Rose looked dubious, but checked her inclination to remonstrate with Tilda just then about the incongruity of trying to make Lizzie envious of her new Bible!
Of course, Rose knew that Tilda and Carrie, as well as some of the other house servants, considered Lizzie "uppity." She had overheard her two maids discussing Lizzie's superior attitude on other occasions. Rose herself was aware that Lizzie carried herself with a kind of arrogant dignity, obviously thinking her status as Mrs. Montrose's personal maid gave her an exalted position.
It seemed strange to Rose that even in the slave system itself there was a sense of "caste" or "pecking order."
Delayed by the unexpected scene with Tilda over the Bible, Rose realized she had to hurry. She left the cottage with Tilda's voice raised in one of the rhythmic melodies the Negroes often sang as they went about their work. These songs had a uniqueness that she had never heard until coming to Virginia.
As she made her way up to the main house, Rose still felt the day should have begun with church attendance. Maybe she should have asked, even insisted, that Malcolm take her into Williamsburg. She understood there was a beautiful Christmas Eve candlelight service there, and she knew the Montroses had cousins in town who would have welcomed them. But Rose had been at Montclair long enough to know old habits and traditions were not easily changed. Next year things might be different. Next year, she thought with a secret smile, many things would be different.
By the time Rose reached the main house, some of the black people were already gathered in front of the porch and more were coming up from the quarters. Inside, Mr. Montrose was directing Josh and Ned, two of the menservants, to assemble the boxes and carry them out onto the veranda for distribution.
Malcolm, Bryce, Garnet, and Leighton were in the dining room having coffee when Rose entered. Malcolm got up and came over to her at once, taking both her cold hands in his and kissing her. "Merry Christmas, darling."
As he did, Rose saw Garnet give her a cool stare, and with a toss of the red-gold ringlets, turn away. Rose still could not penetrate Garnet's
wall of veiled hostility.
But why Garnet continued to rebuff her attempts at friendship, Rose did not understand. As wives of two brothers, daughters-in-law in the same family, they could at least be friends. In all her relentless honesty, however, Rose had to admit she found it hard to like Garnet whom everyone else seemed to adore.
Most of the time, it seemed to Rose, Garnet acted like a child, demanding attention, flattery, and service without regard for anyone else's convenience or comfort. Oddly enough, this was accepted, even condoned.
As Rose drank her coffee, she could not help observing the Montrose brothers. The three of them were different and interesting. Bryce, with his good-natured acceptance of life and people, especially his casual indulgence of Garnet's mercurial ways, had an easygoing manner that seemed a sharp contrast to his recklessness on horseback. Rose had often watched him take hedges, fences, or stone walls with fearless skill that brought her heart into her throat at his daring.
Leighton, called Lee, whom Rose had just met, charmed her at once. With his sweet nature and endearing personality, one could not help loving him. In his smart VMI cadet's uniform, he was devastatingly handsome, yet seemed totally unaware of it.
He came over to Rose now, smiling, and said, "You're under the mistletoe, Rose!" and leaned down from his great height to kiss her.
Bryce was right behind him. "Move aside, brother. My turn!" He laughed and kissed Rose, too.
Over his shoulder, for the second time that morning, Rose caught a steely glare from Garnet that chilled her to the bone.
But the moment was cut short when Mr. Montrose appeared at the dining room door.
"Come along, everybody. The folks are gathered outside. Let's not keep them waiting!" He motioned the young people up with both hands.
Malcolm stood immediately and took Rose's hand to follow his father. Garnet took another sip of her coffee while Bryce patiently held her fur-trimmed pelisse to put around her shoulders. Leighton was already in the hall, holding the front door open for the others.