by Jane Peart
Standing on the veranda in the chilly morning air for almost an hour, Rose was newly aware of the genuine affection that seemed to exist between the master and the servants of Montclair. It certainly did not seem to be the fear-ridden relationship of master-slave depicted in abolitionist literature or the novel by Harriet Beecher Stowe.
As each servant advanced and curtsied or bowed, Mr. Montrose bestowed generous gifts of fabric yardage, jugs of molasses, and blankets. Rose noted that the black faces were bright with happiness. Was the scene she was witnessing the exception or was this the rule of most of the plantation owners and their "people"? Rose had mixed emotions as she watched. Finally when all the presentations had been made, the servants, laughing and chattering, dispersed to the quarters for their own celebration. And the Montrose family went upstairs to theirs in Sara's sitting room.
Although Garnet had always loved Christmas and looked forward to it with a child's eagerness, Chrismas of 1857 promised to be quite different from any other, and she did not anticipate it with any of her usual enthusiasm.
She had discovered, however, that she was a fairly good actress and was learning to guard her words and actions lest she ever reveal her true feelings for Malcolm or her resentment of Rose. It was like walking a tightrope daily, and the strain of it often made her cross and sullen.
It was in this dark mood that she approached the family gift-giving in Sara's suite.
A fire had been laid and was glowing cheerfully in the white marble fireplace, and the room was filled with crimson hothouse roses in milk glass vases and decorated with holly and other fresh greens. Sara had her own small fancifully trimmed tree, sparkling with delicate hand-painted ornaments, cornucopias of marzipan in the shape of fruits and flowers, tiny candles in fluted tin holders.
A round table near Sara's chaise was piled high with brightly wrapped packages, and everyone took a turn pinching, shaking, and examining them, making exaggerated guesses as to their contents.
Mr. Montrose, in a jovial mood brought on by his feeling of benevolence and the holiday spirit, beamed at the assembled members of his family with a heightened sense of his good fortune. Even his delicate Sara seemed less languid this morning—no doubt happy to have all three sons home at the same time.
Their youngest, Leighton, was handing his mother her coffee. Lee had grown like a reed since fall. The two other boys seemed content and happy. Well they might be, he thought with pleasure, regarding his two attractive daughters-in-law.
Of course, Malcolm's Rose was the undisputed beauty, all demure charm this morning in a cherry red dress. And then there was Garnet, as reckless and headstrong as Bryce, so they were well-matched and would probably settle down in time and have strong, healthy children like themselves.
Surely my cup runneth over! was Clay's thought, which surprised him somewhat, as he was not given to thinking in Scripture verse. But, indeed, he did have much for which to be thankful this year.
"Who is going to play Santa Claus?" asked Sara.
"Lee should do the honors. He's the youngest and still believes in him!" joshed Bryce.
"Look who's talking! I remember someone getting up ten times on Christmas Eve to wake me up, swearing he heard reindeer's hooves on the roof!" teased Malcolm.
"Well, whoever is going to do it, let's get on with it!" exclaimed Garnet impatiently. "Mama's expecting us at Cameron Hall at noon, remember." She was thinking of the traditional open house and buffet held each Christmas afternoon for friends and relatives of the Camerons.
Still, Garnet was particularly anxious to see how Malcolm would react to her present for him—a handsome stickpin, a jade four-leaf clover set in gold. She had bought it in New Orleans on her honeymoon. She had spotted it in the window of a jewelry store and knew at once she wanted to buy it for Malcolm.
Bryce had been puzzled by her urgency. Christmas shop in June? Personally, he had thought the tiny piece of jewelry an insignificant sort of present for his brother.
"Why not wait and get him some riding gloves or a shaving case—something useful?" he had suggested.
Of course Bryce had no idea of its secret meaning for Garnet, that it symbolized a precious memory—a day with Malcolm that lingered bittersweet and unforgettable—one she sincerely hoped this gift would recall to him.
While riding one afternoon, she and Malcolm had dismounted to let their horses drink from the stream that ran by Eden Cottage. Looking for violets on the mossy bank, Malcolm suddenly dropped to his knees and, when he arose, he was holding out a four-leaf clover to Garnet.
"For good luck," he had said. "Not that anyone as pretty or clever as you needs luck!"
But Garnet had taken it gratefully, later pressed it, and had kept it in a small porcelain pillbox on her dressing table ever since. It had been a reminder of that special afternoon—the only thing Malcolm had ever given her and, therefore, priceless.
Perhaps it had meant something to him, too, Garnet had hoped. Lately, she had begun to fantasize that Malcolm's spontaneous feelings for her were complicated by the fact that she was so much younger than he, that he had regarded her through the years as his friends' "little sister," and consequently suppressed any romantic inclinations toward her. But then Rose was only a year older! Garnet recalled indignantly.
She looked over at Malcolm, but he was fingering the smooth leather cover of some book Rose had just given him, touching it with appreciation and embracing Rose with his eyes.
Her moment of anticipatory happiness left as swiftly and completely as if a cold wind had blown across her heart, and she felt quite miserable again.
The little gift exchange over; it was time to leave for Cameron Hall. The moment could not have come too soon for Garnet, who had found it an unbearable burden to continue to chat and act pleased with the many presents that had been showered upon her—none of which meant anything at all.
Downstairs waiting for the carriages to be brought around, Garnet gazed in the mirror and adjusted the satin bow of her bonnet. In spite of her inner disappointment over Malcolm's gracious but perfunctory thanks for his gift, Garnet looked enchanting in her dark blue pelisse trimmed in soft gray squirrel fur, her red-gold curls peeking out from under the shovel brim of her matching blue bonnet and framed by the lighter blue satin lining.
Fretting over the unsatisfactory moment when Malcolm had opened her gift and quickly put it aside for one of Rose's, she recalled the wizen-faced old jeweler in the shop in New Orleans squinting at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles.
"This is especially fine jade, madam," he had told her. 'They say when you give jade, you give a part of yourself. Did you know that?"
Garnet had been giving Malcolm a part of herself for years, she thought—all her childish dreams, her impetuous affection, her unrivaled admiration. Then she had given him the most important part of herself—her heart.
Just at that moment Garnet looked up, and over her shoulder she saw reflected in the mirror Malcolm and Rose coming down the staircase, hand in hand, and something cold and hopeless wrenched her soul.
On their way downstairs to get in the carriage bound for Cameron Hall, Malcolm squeezed the hand he was holding and leaned over to whisper to Rose. "I have a special gift for you—later. I didn't want to give it to you in front of the others. I wanted to wait until we have our own private Christmas alone."
Suddenly the whole world seemed right.
Rose felt a warm glow of happiness. In spite of the alienation she sometimes felt in the midst of his family, these were moments that reassured her that she and Malcolm were, after all, bound together uniquely, that they were one. These were the moments she treasured. These were the times that made the difficult ones easier. She barely registered Garnet's scowling face as she and Malcolm reached the bottom of the steps and stepped outside into the sunlight.
By the time they reached Cameron Hall, Rose felt she was in the only place in the world for her now—with Malcolm.
chapter
10
STEPPING THROUGH the front door of Cameron Hall, Rose felt that she had walked into a beautiful stage setting.
She was greeted by the glow of candles, the smell of evergreens ana cedar, the happy sound of music, laughter, and the murmur of cheerful voices.
The company was gathered in both parlors—festively dressed ladies and gentlemen, and children who ran about unchided by the adults. An atmosphere of joyous gaiety prevailed.
Tall and slender as a girl, Mrs. Cameron in rustling blue taffeta came forward.
"Welcome, and Merry Christmas, my dears!" She gave Rose a welcoming hug and kiss.
From their first meeting, Kate Cameron had already been especially kind to Rose, confiding that she had been a stranger from Savannah at the time of her marriage and new to Virginia, and that it had taken her some time to feel comfortable and "at home."
Garnet had inherited her mother's coloring, the glorious bronze-gold hair, but not her beauty, Rose decided. Kate's features were delicate, aristocratic—Garnet's pixyish. The main difference was the air of serenity, an inner peace lacking in the daughter.
Feeling guilty for her uncharitable thoughts, Rose quickly decided that when Garnet was older, she would likely acquire some of her mother's enviable qualities.
"Come, there's someone special I want you to meet, Rose," Kate was saying. "My little cousin, Dove Arundell."
As she gestured to one of the women servants standing by to take Rose's cape, muff, and bonnet, she complimented her, "How charming you look, Rose, and how glowing! Malcolm must be making you very happy."
"I'm trying!" Malcolm laughed.
When Kate led them toward the parlor door, Rose saw Bryson involved in a a lively discussion with some of his friends while Garnet circulated gaily among the guests, apparently never without a dance partner. She wondered briefly if Bryce minded. When Kate beckoned to a petite, dark-haired girl standing in an admiring circle of young men, one of whom was Leighton, the girl excused herself. Her wide-hooped coral dress swung like a bell as she approached them.
"This is our Dove," Kate introduced her.
The name suited her, Rose agreed. Her small-featured face had an expression of infinite sweetness. She was tiny and as exquisitely proportioned as a French doll.
"I hope you and Dove will become friends, Rose. Since you're both newcomers, you should make good companions. You can gossip about all your strange new relatives," Kate said teasingly, then whispered, "Remember, I'm a transplanted Georgian!"
One of the large parlors had been cleared for dancing, the furniture removed, and the floor highly polished. The small Negro band playing at the end of the hallway struck up a tune and couples began moving in the direction of the music.
Leighton came to claim Dove and they departed to dance.
While Mrs. Cameron was still drawing them both into conversation, Rose spotted Garnet, a look of triumph on her face, making her way toward them. But she had no greeting for Rose, only a pert invitation for Malcolm.
"Is your dance card filled already, or did you save one for me?"
Malcolm seemed amused and answered indulgently, "I will always save a dance for you, Garnet." Then with a little bow to Rose and Kate, he said, "If you ladies will excuse us?"
Rose stiffened imperceptibly, trying to keep her smile steady and her outward composure, while inwardly she felt a rush of indignation at Garnet's boldness. Should not Malcolm's first dance have been with his wife?
Mrs. Cameron seemed disturbed, too, although the only visible sign was her quickly unfurled fan beating rapidly as she said in a conciliatory tone to Rose, "Garnet is such a child! I'm afraid, quite spoiled. Our fault, no doubt. We just wanted her to be happy. She has always had beaux, and she is—so amusing, so lighthearted—so frivolous, I suppose. And yet, I would not have her change. So few people know how to be happy." Here Mrs. Cameron's expression grew thoughtful, "I only hope Garnet recognizes real happiness when she has it."
Rose watched mutely as Malcolm and Garnet moved with the ease of two people who had danced together often, surely, gracefully, and with obvious pleasure. Garnet's face shone as she smiled up at Malcolm, and Rose's stomach tightened with tension. It was an effort of sheer will not to betray herself, so she continued the conversation with Mrs. Cameron afterward, but not a single word could she remember.
The music ended, and Malcolm was again at Rose's side. "Shall we?" he asked, and she moved into his arms. As he whirled her onto the floor, she caught a glimpse of Garnet's face and was momentarily so unnerved by its hostility that she missed a step and Malcolm had to halt until they were once again in rhythm.
That image lingered to trouble Rose deeply, in spite of the cordiality and warmth she met on every side that day from the Camerons and their guests. Why had she not been able to win Garnet as her friend? What did Garnet hold against her?
The afternoon wore on, filled with music, genial chatter, and good food. In the dining room a bountiful feast had been spread on two long tables glistening with crystal and silver on a damask cloth set with elaborate chinaware. There were magnificent turkeys on platters at either end, a huge ham, as well, bowls filled with rice, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, vegetables of every variety. On a side table diners could choose from three kinds of pies—apple, apricot, and peach; a tiered Lady Baltimore cake, candied fruit between its frosted layers; and the traditional Virginia favorite—ambrosia, in an exquisite cut-glass bowl.
It was already dark when Malcolm and Rose finally said their good-byes and stepped out onto the porch when their carriage was called.
To Rose's delight, great feathery snowflakes had begun to fall. She clapped her hands like a child and exclaimed, "Look, Malcolm! It's snowing!"
On the ride home, bundled into warm lap robes and snuggled in the curve of Malcolm's arm, Rose was supremely content. It had been a lovely Christmas, after all, she sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder.
Letting themselves into their cottage, they found a fire burning in the grate of the little parlor, and on the gateleg table in front of it, a tray with a pot of chocolate and a plate of wafer-thin cookies.
Malcolm helped Rose remove her cape before they settled themselves cozily on the love seat facing the glowing fire.
"Now I want to give you my gift," Malcolm said, drawing a slim, oblong velvet jewelry case from his pocket and handing it to Rose.
With trembling hands she sprung the little catch and found a pendant shaped like a snowflake, glistening with diamonds.
"Oh, Malcolm!" she whispered.
"You know, it is said there are no two snowflakes exactly alike," he told her as he fastened the delicate gold chain around her neck, lifting her hair to do so. "That's the way I think of you, Rose . . . so special, so different from every other woman in the world, so uniquely lovely . . . so fragile . . . to be treated with gentle, careful love."
Tears blurred Rose's eyes as she saw Malcolm gazing at her so tenderly.
"Merry Christmas, my darling Rose," Malcolm murmured before his lips claimed hers in a deep, sweet kiss.
She nestled in his arms and he held her in the circle of his embrace, his chin resting on her hair.
Rose gave a deep sigh of contentment, and Malcolm tightened his arms around her. For the second time that evening, he asked, "Happy?"
"Yes," she breathed. "Sublimely."
For a long while they remained quiet, the soft firelight playing on their faces, casting shadows on the wall behind them, in the kind of warm intimacy that needed no words. With Tilda and Joseph dismissed to their own festivities, they basked in the rare delight of being alone together. Their future seemed to stretch before them in endless bliss; their love, so new, was still wrapped in the magic of discovery, full of surprises and unexpected joys. Nothing yet dimmed that first sweetness of belonging only to each other; no shadow of uncertainty or doubt or sorrow threatened.
After some time, Rose stirred in Malcolm's arms and shifted so that she could look up at him. "Malcolm, I, too,
have a kind of gift for you that I've been saving until we were by ourselves."
"Oh? Keeping secrets, are you? I thought we weren't going to have any secrets from each other," he teased.
"I wanted to be quite sure before I told you."
"Told me what, darling? You never need hesitate to tell me anything, Rose. Whatever it is, I would try to understand."
"It's not anything you'd have to try to understand, Malcolm." Rose smiled a secret smile, then rushed on. "In fact, it's very . . . natural and normal for two married people. I just hope you'll be as happy as I am about it."
Malcolm struck his forehead with the heel of his hand in mock exasperation. "Rose, will you stop teasing and tell me what it is?"
"I—we—Malcolm, I'm going to have a child."
He stared at her as though he had not heard her, then as comprehension dawned, a smile spread over his face, lighting up his eyes, changing his entire expression.
"Rose, how wonderful! How perfectly splendid!" He drew her slowly into his arms again. Looking down at her with great tenderness, he asked, "And you're quite sure?"
She nodded, the color flowing into her cheeks, delighting in Malcolm's obvious joy, the pride and happiness shining in his eyes.
He leaned down then and kissed her, slowly, then more deeply, possessively. She could feel his heart pounding against hers, aware of his palms on her waist, gathering her even closer. She raised her arms to his shoulders, feeling the strength of him, caressing the back of his neck where the thick hair curled. Then she was aware of nothing but his kiss and her eager response.
Finally they drew apart, smiling into each other's eyes.
"What a fine way to start the New Year," Malcolm said, "bringing a child into the world." He threw back his head and laughed. "Our child will be born in 1858.I feel it's going to be the happiest year of our lives, my darling Rose!"