Yankee Bride / Rebel Bride

by Jane Peart

  Another unexpected result of little Jonathan's arrival was a change in the relationship between Rose and her mother-in-law. The baby's birth seemed to revitalize the part of Sara that her own children's births had brought into existence, that primal instinct of motherhood. She quite adored the baby, and whenever Rose brought him in to her, she would gaze at him. "He is so like Malcolm. Such a handsome, unusual baby."

  Jonathan soon became the center of attention at Montclair, with everyone from his proud Grandfather Clay to Linny, his nurse, marveling at his perfection, noting each new development with awe, praising his strength and the intelligence in his wide, dark eyes. Everyone, that is, but Garnet who evidenced an aloof indifference. She had been away most of the summer and, after she and Bryce returned to Montclair in the fall, she still spent most of her days at her former home, Cameron Hall.

  When Jonathan was six weeks old and Rose fully recovered from the birth, she asked Malcolm one night as they were dressing for dinner, "When can we move back to Eden Cottage?"

  He seemed surprised. "Don't you like it here?"

  "It's just that I miss our own little place, our privacy, our times together—"

  "But we're together here." He turned to her, smiling indulgently. "And what about the nursery and Linny and the baby? Eden is a honeymoon cottage, darling. We're a family now," he reminded her with a smile. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he bent toward her and kissed her lightly. "There's no room for Jonathan there."

  Rose sighed. "I suppose you're right."

  But she felt an overwhelming sense of loss. She had not realized their move to Montclair's big house would be a permanent arrangement. She had never, in fact, thought of their spacious rooms as anything but temporary quarters until after the baby's birth. She felt another small twinge of sadness. Those days alone in Eden Cottage had been so fleeting. Now, it seemed, they were gone forever... as was that special closeness she and Malcolm had known there.

  "Besides," Malcolm said, "from what I gather, there will soon be new occupants for Eden Cottage."

  Rose whirled around from the mirror, her wide skirts swaying. "What do you mean? Who?"

  "Why, Leighton—and Dove Arundell, the Camerons' cousin," he replied.

  "How do you know?"

  "Garnet told me."

  "Garnet?" echoed Rose. Why hasn't she said anything to the rest of us? she wondered.

  "Yes. I met her the other day when she was trying out her new horse on the bridle path along the river where Cameron and Montrose lands join." Malcolm spoke casually, adjusting his satin cravat in the mirror over Rose's head. "From what Garnet says, the romance started at Christmas, and Leighton has been going to see her every chance he gets." Malcolm chuckled as he turned to pick up his broadcloth coat. "I thought it rather strange that Lee pleaded extra studying for his examinations last spring instead of coming home. It seems he went to Savannah instead. At any rate, Miss Dove will be here at Christmas again and the happy news, I suspect, will be announced then. And perhaps in June, when Leighton is graduated, they will be married."

  Rose did not reply at once. It was not that she was so surprised at the news of Leighton's love for the adorable Dove. That he was smitten by her was evident at the Camerons' Christmas party last year. It was Malcolm's casual remark about riding with Garnet that made her thoughtful. She had been so preoccupied with the baby that some days she did not see Malcolm until evening. Garnet, she knew, went out riding every afternoon and Malcolm, making the plantation rounds each day, was bound to run into her sooner or later. If not by chance, then by clever planning. Garnet's, not Malcolm's, of course, she thought loyally.

  The fox-hunting season had hardly passed when preparations began for the Christmas holidays once again. The house took on a festive air, with Mrs. Montrose directing the decorating from her bedroom, and her maid Lizzie relaying the instructions to the rest of the house servants. Galax leaves and crimson ribbon were intertwined in the balustrades of the staircase. Fresh holly, red with berries, filled large vases in the hall. Wreaths adorned the windows, and glowing pine-scented candles brightened the mantels in all the rooms.

  The house was filled to overflowing, people corning and going, carriages arriving at all hours, every extra room occupied with guests who stayed overnight or a week at a time.

  A dozen or more people gathered around the dinner table almost every evening. Of course Rose knew that Montclair had always been known for its gracious hospitality, and its master as a genial and generous host whose guests were drawn from the gentry of the surrounding countryside—wealthy, cultured, elegantly dressed.

  That is why Rose was amazed at the superficiality of the conversation. Most of these guests, certainly the gentlemen, were well-educated, yet the table talk was uniformly mundane. At least so Rose thought, until one evening after dinner, when the ladies had retired to the parlor and music room, leaving the men at the table.

  Rose had hesitated for a moment after leaving the dining room, trying to decide whether to go into the parlor with Mrs. Cameron and some of the older ladies, or to the music room where the younger women, mostly Garnet's friends, were assembling. Before she did either, however, she would run upstairs to the nursery and check on the sleeping Jonathan, even though the faithful Linny was probably close by.

  After caressing his round little head and tucking the silken quilt more firmly around him, Rose came back downstairs. As she passed the dining room, she heard the men's voices raised in argument from behind the closed door. Rose paused to listen—and then, to regret listening.

  "Those Northern papers print nothing but lies," one man said indignantly. "To read them, you'd believe we whip our slaves every day."

  Rose would have moved on, but she heard Malcolm's calm voice. "Surely no one, no reasonable person, would believe that kind of scurrilous yellow journalism."

  "Well, Malcolm—" this was Mr. Montrose interjecting—"if a lie is repeated often enough, people tend to believe it's true."

  "Some of our Southern papers are just as bad," countered another.

  "All these lies are going to lead this country into a situation nobody can predict and nobody can get out of. . . It's a self-destructive path. No matter what is said, it's where it's said that counts. We're just as ready to believe what our papers say about the North." That was Malcolm again.

  "They've been baiting us for thirty years about our slaves. But they don't turn down the cotton we send them for their mills. They're getting rich enough on it themselves."

  "Yankee shrewdness," came a sarcastic comment.

  There was general laughter.

  "A Yankee would as soon cheat his grandmother as pinch a penny!"

  Another roar of laughter.

  "But, gentlemen, let's not sell them short when it comes to convictions. They've bought the Abolitionist package and we best not shrug off their intentions."

  "But slavery itself is not the issue."

  "You think not? How would any of us run our plantations without slave labor? It's important, all right."

  "Not all that many men in the South own slaves."

  "But to the ones who do, it's important."

  "What troubles me is if the Abolitionists get their way and elect a Republican next year. If so, we're in for real problems. South Carolina's talking secession."

  Another round of laughter, then Rose heard Malcolm again.

  "Virginia would certainly never leave the Union over slavery, of that I'm very sure. Look at our Virginia Presidents, all of them—Washington, Jefferson, and Madison, too—all freed their own slaves. I think most slave owners eventually would come to that conclusion, if the North would stop insisting and acting so righteous."

  "Feelings run pretty high, Malcolm. We just won't stand for their telling us what we must do."

  "You're right, we won't. The South, Virginia included, is not going to take orders from the Yankees."

  There was the sound of clinking glasses and, through the slats of the louvers, Rose could see tha
t Mr. Montrose had risen to get another decanter from the massive mahogany sideboard and was refilling glasses.

  Her heart pounding, Rose slipped past, apprehensive that someone might come along and see her standing there. The conversation she had just overheard distressed her deeply.

  She also realized that it was probably in deference to her that none of this type of discussion was carried on in her presence. Mentally she apologized for her judgment of the quality of conversation that had prevailed. She had underestimated the polite sensitivity, mainly her father-in-law's, which made them hesitate to raise such controversial issues while she was seated among the diners.

  That was not the only bitter lesson Rose was to learn about eavesdropping that night. As she proceeded down the hall, she heard the sound of feminine voices and high-pitched laughter coming from the music room where Garnet and her friends had gathered.

  Garnet had a gift for mimicry and a flair for the dramatic. Rose had often witnessed her caricature of some recent visitor at Montclair. She had even inwardly sympathized with the poor, unfortunate subject of the most recent hilarity. Inexplainably, Rose thought, Mr. Montrose was Garnet's most vocal supporter and heartily endorsed her performances. Even when the object of ridicule happened to be a good friend of his, he would laugh at her merciless rendition.

  Now as Rose stood uncertainly, not knowing which room to enter, she heard Garnet's voice in a perfect imitation of her own New England accent. She halted, feeling her cheeks flame with humiliation, as Garnet's words reached her amid peals of derisive laughter.

  "Now, Linny, dear, take the baby very carefully—"

  "Dear? Does she actually call her baby's nurse dear?"

  "Oh, my, yes!" retorted Garnet. "She's a regular little 'Mrs. Stowe'."

  "Calls a darky dear! I do declare! I never heard of such a thing!" squealed someone else.

  "Oh, all her servants are pampered pets," retorted Garnet.

  Hot stinging tears rushed into Rose's eyes. She turned as if to run; her only thought, escape. How could she? How could Garnet who should, as her sister-in-law, befriend and defend her, hold her up to such cruel ridicule?

  As Rose stood there immobilized, she heard the scraping of chairs and the sounds of movement coming from the dining room. Apparently the gentlemen were preparing to join the ladies. For a moment she was locked in mindless panic. Then, taking a long, shaky breath, she straightened her shoulders and went to the door of the parlor. Forcing a smile, she entered.

  Kate Cameron, sitting on one of the twin sofas, beckoned to her, patting the cushion beside her. Gratefully Rose made her way forward and sank down.

  Somehow Rose managed to get through the rest of the evening, even to exchanging pleasantries with Garnet's friends, who, merely out of politeness, Rose felt sure, complimented her on her gown or inquired about Jonathan. Her face felt strained with the effort of smiling without betraying her inner turmoil. She even managed to stand alongside Garnet as they all bade their guests good night.

  Neither did Rose allow herself the relief of telling Malcolm about it later. He would have been angry with Garnet, but would have also chastised Rose for listening. Wearily she decided it was not worth the telling. Her hurt was something with which she alone must deal.

  But sleep did not come easily for Rose that night. She lay awake long after Malcolm's even breathing told her he had fallen asleep. She heard the clock strike midnight, then one, and still her troubled thoughts would not allow her to rest.

  All the voices, all the comments came hauntingly back to her as she lay there, staring into the darkness.

  The talk of tension between North and South, the question of slavery, all reactivated past impassioned arguments. Garnet's sneering reference to Rose as "a regular Mrs. Stowe," recalled to her mind the famous writer's novel Uncle Tom's Cabin. Rose had been at boarding school when it was published, and everyone was talking about it. Many of the girls reacted violently as they read the one copy of the book that was passed around.

  Rose, too, had wept when she read about little Eva and her cruel mother, recoiled from the evil Simon Legree, held her breath in suspense as Eliza traversed the ice-clogged river, sobbed when Uncle Tom died. She had never imagined that one day she would live in the South or, in fact, be married to a "slave owner." But then she could not think of Malcolm as a slave owner; neither could she hide from the truth. As his wife, she too, was one of that despised breed. Weren't Tilda, Carrie, and Linny her slaves? What would her Northern friends think if they knew it took twenty-two house servants to maintain a place like Montclair?

  Rose moved restlessly, trying not to disturb the sleeping Malcolm as her tortured thoughts circled endlessly.

  Much as Rose tried to lull her conscience and comfort her disquieted heart, the gray light of dawn was seeping through the shuttered windows before she finally drifted off into a shallow slumber.

  chapter

  14

  WITH BABY Jonathan's birth, Garnet found more and more excuses to be away from Montclair. It became increasingly difficult for her to be around the shining happiness of Rose and Malcolm's unabashed pride in their son.

  An incident that occurred a few months after Jonathan was born precipitated a flaming row with Bryce. It happened the day the photographer came to take pictures of Rose and the baby to send to her family in Massachusetts.

  The family had gathered in Sara's sitting room so she could observe the procedure. The photographer was busy arranging the pose, while the others formed an admiring circle about the adorable infant and his lovely mother.

  It was Rose who noticed Garnet standing to one side, largely ignored. Sweetly she asked, "Would you like to hold Jonathan, Garnet?"

  Startled, Garnet quickly put her hands behind her back as if afraid Rose might thrust him into her arms. "Good heavens, no!" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't know the first thing about holding a baby!"

  "No better way to learn," chuckled Mr. Montrose, giving Bryce a sly wink.

  But Garnet turned away furiously. She didn't want a baby, she thought angrily. Certainly not Bryce's baby. In fact, she didn't want any child at all if it couldn't be Malcolm's.

  If Rose had been hurt by Garnet's refusal, or the others puzzled by her attitude, it was because no one knew Garnet was sick with envy. Her secret anguish drove her frustration to an unbearable pitch and afterward she provoked an unnecessary quarrel with Bryce.

  The result was that she packed again and went off for another lengthy stay with some cousins. Since one of them was about to be married, the wedding was a convenient explanation for her abrupt departure.

  During the next two years their marriage followed this unpredictable pattern, with Garnet's impulsive comings and goings. Sometimes Bryce accompanied her, but he was never content for long away from the life of riding and hunting the land he loved. Because Bryce loved Garnet devotedly, he allowed her to come and go at will even if he did not understand her need to do so.

  At times Garnet had bouts of conscience about Bryce. She knew she was withholding the generous love due him, was denying him the rapturous fulfillment that was his right, imprisoning them both in a marriage so limited that love's ideal joys and triumphs had not been attained. She also knew he loved her with all her shortcomings, her whims, and weaknesses.

  Most of the time they got on well, for they had much in common. Their roots were the same, and these were deeply grounded in their families and the land. Even their sudden quarrels were quickly over and, like children or sunshine after a summer storm, they were soon laughing and teasing each other again.

  In the spring it was decided that Rose should accompany her mother-in-law on her annual pilgrimage to White Sulphur Springs. Never yet having regained all her former zest after Jonathan's birth, Rose looked forward to bathing in the strengthening waters as well as to the change of air and scenery. Jonathan's nurse, Linny, and Lizzie would also make the trip to attend to their needs.

  Rose's delight in the new surroundings, along with her profou
nd sadness in being away from Malcolm, was quickly recorded in the diary he had given her. Knowing that she would return to her husband a much healthier, happier companion, however, eased the pangs of homesickness.

  White Sulphur Springs, 1859

  The magnificent hotel and grounds are approached by a winding road, through manicured lawns planted with flower beds. The main building is circled by a tiered veranda with hanging baskets of purple and red fuschias. Dozens of comfortable rustic rockers line the porch on which guests can sit to watch the new arrivals. The spectators all look so rosy and relaxed that upon arrival, the poor, weary traveler may take heart that the regimen here does one a world of good!

  Each cottage has its own porch where invalids can rest in the open air, yet are secluded by a protective screen of trees. Mama was quite fatigued by the long journey and went immediately to the cottage reserved for her, where Lizzie put her to bed.

  Before going inside to inspect my own quarters, I stood on the little porch and looked back across the smooth lawn to the hills beyond. A lovely passage of Scripture came to me then: "I look unto the hills from whence cometh my strength," and I whispered a little prayer of gratitude for the privilege of resting in this beautiful place and regaining both physical and spiritual strength. I have felt, in the last several months, a kind of ennui, a drifting from my long-held convictions, brought about perhaps by the atmosphere of luxury and leisure that abounds at Montclair. I have a feeling in this tranquil place I will once again find my true source of contentment and peace.

  April 15, 1859

  Although the food is healthy, it is hearty indeed, and the conversation at the table, stimulating. It is enjoyable to be in the company of such interesting, intelligent women as those at my assigned table, and to hold conversations of more substance than those at Montclair where the chief topics among the ladies are gowns, gardens, and gossip. I am like a starving person suddenly offered a feast—and I fear I shall be surfeited by intellectual gluttony!