Yankee Bride / Rebel Bride

by Jane Peart

  Stewart bowed, smiling, and released her.

  She started toward the stairway with no apparent haste. But as soon as she rounded the bend of the balcony on the second floor, she broke into a run. In the darkened nursery she lifted her skirts and unfastened the waistband that held the three tapered circles of her hoop, letting her crinoline petticoat drop to the floor. Quickly she stepped out of them and kicked them aside. She knew the widened skirt of her dress would have only hampered her progress through the narrow tunnel.

  Unconsciously looking over her shoulder, she gave three light taps before running a trembling hand along the wall until she found the ridge where the hidden spring released the secret panel and opened the entrance to the slanted space.

  The light from the lantern gave little illumination to the interior, and the first thing Rose could see was the whites of three pairs of eyes staring at her. As she stepped inside, the smell of lantern oil, the odor of bodies, damp wool, and the airless closeness of the hiding place assaulted her nostrils.

  Rose fought back a threatening sensation of nausea.

  "Ready?" she whispered to the three black people who were watching her fearfully. They nodded.

  "Follow me very closely," she told them. "The steps down are very short and steep. It would be best to carry the child," she directed the woman. "I'll hold the lantern high so you won't miss your footing."

  Steeling herself against the sickening memories of her other trips through the dank passageway, calling upon all the inner courage she could muster and repeating over and over her constant prayer, "I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me," Rose began the tortuous descent.

  She could hear the rasping breathing behind her, could almost hear the frantic beating of those hearts so near to gaining their freedom.

  O dear Lord, let everything go right ! Rose prayed. Let the boat be there! Let them get away . . . safely, safely.

  Her foot slipped on one of the slimy steps and she stumbled, but caught herself with one arm and without dropping the lantern. It swung wildly, casting weird shapes and shadows, and she heard the others' quick intake of breath behind her.

  It seemed to take longer than she remembered, and she felt cold perspiration roll down her back, even in the murky dampness of the cavern.

  On and on they went. Then, through the thin soles of her satin dancing slippers, Rose felt the change from packed earth to stone, and knew they were nearing the storage room where the trapdoor in the ceiling opened up to the latticed breezeway of Eden Cottage. She breathed a long, shaky sigh. When they climbed out here, there was only a distance of about twenty yards to the river. Beyond the clearing of the small walled garden of Eden Cottage, Rose could see the water shimmering in the moonlight, but there was plenty of foliage where they could hide until they saw the flat boat that was supposed to meet them there.

  Rose stepped aside, and, motioning to the man, had him slide back the wooden bolt that held the trapdoor shut. When he pushed it, a welcome, fresh woodsy scent rushed into her starving lungs and Rose turned and picked up the little boy and handed him up to his father. Then she drew the woman forward and pointed out the rungs of the wooden ladder to her. After she was up, Rose gathered her gown about her and carefully followed.

  "From here, you will be safe. I'll wait until we see the boat, then I must go back to the house before I'm missed," she told them.

  Even as she spoke there came the unmistakable plop and swish of an oar being lifted, the slap of water against the side of a boat. As they stood there waiting in the darkness, a long, flat skiff slid into view, with a figure hunched over the helm.

  "That's it!" Rose exclaimed. "There's your boat. Go!"

  The two made an abortive movement, then the woman fell on her knees, sobbing. She took up the hem of Rose's skirt and kissed it, saying in a low moan, "Thankee, ma'am! Thankee kindly!"

  "Go on! Hurry!" Rose whispered, a surge of emotion taxing her already overwrought nervous system. She pulled the woman up and gave her a gentle shove in the direction in which the man, with the child in his arms, had already started.

  Rose watched their shadowy figures, then waited until the boat began to move. It glided slowly away, only the slightest sound of lapping water disturbed the stillness of the night.

  When it disappeared, Rose dared not think what time it was, or how long she had been away from the house, or if she had been missed.

  Only one thing she knew with certainty. She could not bring herself to go back through that dark tunnel again. She would have to make her way through the woods on the familiar path to Montclair. It would take longer, but she could not face the horrors of the tunnel twice in one night.

  The moon must have slipped behind a cloud because, as she started back, the woods were full of shadows.

  The wind felt chill, sending a shiver through her very bones, tightening the skin on her scalp. Its sighing in the trees above her whispered a message of eerie foreboding. Now, as she made her way along the path, there was an unearthly silence. Once, breath short and heart pounding, she thought she heard footsteps behind her. She halted, afraid to draw a breath.

  Could someone have possibly come looking for her? Followed her to Eden Cottage and seen the escape?

  She steadied herself and moved on.

  Then as she neared the house, seeing the lights from all the windows along the veranda shining out onto the terrace, Rose started to run.

  She went around the side of the house, up the steps and in through the side door, along the servant's hall and up the back stairway. Reaching the second floor undetected, she hurried along the hallway and dashed into the nursery.

  Picking up her hoop where she had dropped it, Rose bunched up her skirt, stepped into it, and pulled it up. With hands that shook, she fastened it on her crinoline, then draped her skirt over it.

  Rose knew she had to do something about her hair before she went back downstairs. Her side combs had fallen out, and her curls now tumbled about her bare shoulders in wild disarray. She picked up Jonathan's soft baby hairbrush and tried to smooth out some of the tangles.

  Her frustration mounted, for she knew she had to get back to the party, or there would be no end of explaining to do.

  She was leaning over to examine the wet hem of her gown and to brush off some of the mud and twigs that had clung to it, when she suddenly became aware of another presence in the room.

  Slowly she raised her head and saw to her utter dismay, Lizzie, Mrs. Montrose's personal maid, standing in the doorway.

  Rose's blood chilled.

  Lizzie had always treated Rose with a kind of aloofness that bordered on disdain. Hidden beneath an exaggerated politeness, it could not be called to account nor corrected. Rose thought Lizzie always seemed fiercely jealous of anyone Sara seemed fond of, even members of the Montrose family. Malcolm, too, had noticed this trait and dismissed it as a kind of protective loyalty to his mother.

  But now as Rose withered under her penetrating gaze, she thought she saw something new in Lizzie's eyes—suspicion, vindictiveness. Did she know? Rose wondered, with trepidation.

  "Is anything wrong, ma'am?" Lizzie asked her with a cold wariness.

  Trying not to sound flustered, Rose replied coolly, "No, nothing's wrong, Lizzie. Everything's fine. I was just looking in on Jonathan."

  "You sure, ma'am? I came upstairs to get my mistress her shawl, and I thought I heard something. Should I find Linny and send her up to stay with the baby?"

  "No, no, that won't be necessary. He's sound asleep now," Rose replied evenly, knowing full well Lizzie was suspicious.

  Head spinning, nerves jumping, Rose waited until Lizzie went away before opening the door and flying down the short flight of steps to hers and Malcolm's bedroom below the nursery.

  She had to change her slippers, at least; their thin soles and satin uppers were soaked and ruined. Her combs were gone, so she replaced them with her everyday ones. Peering into the mirror, she saw that she looked pale, agitated.
Leaning closer to the glass, she pinched both cheeks, bringing color to them. With a final,frantic glance and a prayer that neither her long absence nor anything about her appearance would betray her, Rose took a long, shaky breath and returned to the party.

  Rose never knew how she endured the rest of the evening until she was standing on the veranda with Malcolm, seeing the last carriage full of guests disappearing around the bend of the drive.

  There were faint pink streaks in the pale dawn sky when, at last, Rose was in her own bedroom in front of her dressing table. With hands that fumbled, she began unfastening the tiny hooks of her bodice.

  "Need some help?" Malcolm asked softly, coming up behind her. "I've not had much experience as a lady's maid, but I'm willing to learn." He laughed teasingly, lifted her lustrous curls, and kissed her bare shoulder.

  In spite of her weariness Rose felt herself responding to the feel of his warm lips on her skin. She sighed, leaning back against him as his arms wound around her slender waist.

  "You were the most beautiful lady at the party tonight," he told her, his lips moving along the side of her cheek, touching the tip of her ear.

  She shivered delightedly, put her hands over his, tightening his embrace.

  "Then we were a splendid couple, for you were by far the handsomest man." She sighed happily, looking at their reflection.

  As she did, she experienced a jolting shock. Her diamond pendant was gone! Involuntarily she started to put her hand to her throat, then stopped herself, not wanting to call Malcolm's attention to the fact it was missing. A horrifying certainty struck her. Somewhere along the underground passageway or out in the woods, she had lost the beautiful jeweled snowflake Malcolm had given her for Christmas!

  Again Rose summoned the acting skills she had practiced all evening. Her expression did not change; the dreadful panic she felt did not register on her face; only inside, where tension knotted itself, was her terrible discovery evident. She could not tell Malcolm of the loss nor go look for it tonight. The thought that she might have to take that awful journey through the underground tunnel once more filled her with horror. But if she had to, she would. First thing tomorrow though, she would comb the woods along the path from Eden Cottage and the area beyond it to the river where she had watched the slaves escape.

  "Come along to bed, Rose," Malcolm whispered, spinning her around gently and drawing her close. With one hand he tilted her chin and kissed her. "I was very proud of you tonight. You were so poised, so gracious. Everyone spoke admiringly of you. You have such an air of grace, an indefinable quality that is so rare. . . . Did I tell you how much I love you today?"

  "I don't think so. There really hasn't been much time for the two of us—"

  "Then I'll just have to show you."

  In the warm intimacy of the deep, downy bed, Rose nested her head on Malcolm's shoulder. By the evenness of his breathing, she knew when he had dropped off to sleep. Rose was always amazed that even after nearly two years of marriage, the act of love was still thrilling.

  If only she did not have to keep secret from Malcolm her terrifying errand tonight. It destroyed the perfect unity she longed to have with him. But she knew he would have been appalled at her involvement in such an undertaking. No, she and Malcolm would never be in agreement on the subject of slavery.

  She shifted her body slightly, winding her arms over Malcolm's chest and fitting herself more deeply into the curve of his long, lean frame. She sighed.

  Well, the ordeal was over, and she had managed to get through it. Tomorrow she would search the woods for her pendant. It must be there. Or in the tunnel. She would go there, too, if necessary. Malcolm must not know it was ever missing. She hoped this would be her last secret from him. Nothing must come between her and Malcolm. Nothing to jeopardize this precious oneness—

  But in the morning Rose awoke with a splitting headache. Feverish, she alternated between shivers and washes of perspiration. When she attempted to sit up, she was gripped with nausea.

  With a groan she fell back upon the pillows, calling weakly for Tilda.

  She felt so ill she could neither raise her head nor take but a few sips of water. Tilda nursed her skillfully while Malcolm hovered nearby.

  "Jes' wore out!" clucked Tilda, shaking her head. "Jes' too much of everything'. Too mich fussin', too much preparin', too much partyin'. Miss Rose need her res', Marse Malcolm. Jes' let her be. Tilda will take keer of her."

  So Malcolm tiptoed out of the room, leaving Rose to Tilda's ministrations.

  For the rest of the day Rose lay in the darkened room, feeling sick and helpless. She knew her illness was the result of all the nervous strain she had been under, but she could not share that with anyone. Let them think what they liked, she felt too numb to care. What bothered her most was the lost pendant. If only she could get up and search for it.

  Late that afternoon she heard her bedroom door quietly open, but was too weary to turn her head to see who it was. Then she heard someone standing beside her bed. "Miss Rose?"

  It was not Tilda's familiar voice and, when Rose lifted her heavy eyelids to look, to her surprise she saw it was Lizzie.

  Rose felt far too ill to wonder why Lizzie was here holding a cup in her hand. The night before seemed like a nightmare now and she vaguely recalled that Lizzie had something to do with it.

  "I've brought you some camomile tea, Miss Rose. I always make it for Miss Sara when she's po'ly."

  "Thank you, Lizzie. I'm not sure I can swallow it, but—" she paused, gesturing weakly to the bedside table—"put it down and I'll try."

  "Would you want me to help you sit up?" Lizzie asked.

  "Not just now, but thank you, Lizzie." Rose closed her eyes wearily. Perhaps Mrs. Montrose had sent the woman to inquire how she was feeling. But Lizzie did not leave after she set down the cup. Rose opened her eyes and saw her hesitating. "Is there something else, Lizzie?"

  Lizzie drew herself up and Rose thought again what a handsome woman she was. She held her tall, erect figure proudly, almost haughtily. Her coffee-colored skin was smooth; her features even, in her high-cheekboned face. As she hesitated, Lizzie put one hand in the pocket of her apron, drew something out, then stretched out her hand to Rose. Something glittered brightly in her palm.

  "Did you lose this, Miss Rose?"

  "My snowflake pendant!" Rose gasped. "Why, Lizzie, where—" Rose started, then stopped mid-sentence and gazed wide-eyed at Lizzie.

  Lizzie took a step closer, leaning over Rose. She spoke very low, but distinctly.

  "I know about last night, Miss Rose. I was comin' out of Miss Sara's room when I seen you bring them folks up. I knew there was a passageway in this house somewheres, 'cause I heard the old folks talk about it. But none of us people knew where it was or how to get to it. 'Course we knew about how folks get led up No'th to freedom. We jes' never guessed it was from Montclair."

  Lizzie paused for a long time, then she bent close to Rose and looked at her unblinkingly. "Miss Rose, I wants to go nex' time."

  Rose stared back at her. Sara's devoted maid! Lizzie was the last person Rose would have ever suspected of being unhappy. Tilda was always complaining about Lizzie's privileges, telling Rose that many of the other house servants grumbled about her special position in the household.

  Trying to disguise her amazement at this revelation, Rose murmured, "Well, Lizzie, I don't know if there will be a next time. I don't know if they'll ever contact me again."

  "But if they do, Miss Rose," Lizzie persisted, "I's got to go."

  "You would leave Miss Sara?" Rose asked, bewildered.

  "There's lots of slaves Miss Sara could have as her maid." Rose noticed the slight contempt in Lizzie's voice, the emphasis on the word slave. Lizzie held her head up and said distinctly, "My man Sergus, what ole Marse sold some months ago, is up No'th now. I wants to be with him."

  So that was it. That explained everything. Lizzie was the woman who had mourned Sergus's departure; she was the one Tilda ha
d said would make someone pay for it.

  "You will let me know the nex' time, Miss Rose?"

  It was more a statement than a question, and in it Rose sensed a kind of threat. Would Lizzie betray the movement if Rose did not enter into a conspiracy to help her escape? Rose could not be sure. Lizzie was unpredictable, just as her handling of this volatile situation had been.

  Rose had hoped she would never again be called upon to make that dreadful journey through the tunnel.

  "Shall I put your necklace away, Miss Rose?"

  "Where did you find it, Lizzie?"

  "It was on the floor of the nursery right beside the secret door, ma'am. It must have come loose and fallen off there."

  "Thank you, Lizzie." Rose closed her eyes.

  Suddenly everything was too much. The entire nightmare she had experienced, the complete physical exhaustion, emotional depletion—and now Lizzie's outrageous request.

  As for the black woman—an accomplished seamstress, a skilled nurse, a matchless ladies' maid—she would have no trouble rinding employment in the North, would, in fact, be in demand and discover the new experience of being well paid for her work.

  It was only fair, Rose told herself, only simply justice. And yet she felt an inner shrinking at Sara's reaction, the storm that would follow Lizzie's departure, and shuddered.

  What would Malcolm's mother do if she knew she harbored a traitor under her own roof, and that the traitor was her own son's wife?

  Part V

  Beloved Enemy

  Mayfield and Richmond

  1860-1862

  chapter

  18

  THE TENSION fermenting throughout the South was felt strongly among the planters in Virginia. Talk of following South Carolina's lead was heard at almost every dinner hour at Montclair, and with strong feelings being expressed all around her and having learned her own lesson in discretion, Rose again took to her diary. Because of the nature of her subject, however, she kept it hidden. She had inadvertently discovered a secret drawer in the bottom of a small applewood chest in her bedroom. She would take the book out whenever she was alone and jot down the rapidly changing events and her own private thoughts.