by Jane Peart
August 1860
Lizzie is gone. Determined to leave once I showed her the secret passage, she made her way alone through it and out to the river where she joined others whom Mrs. Colby had secreted in her house until the connection North was assured. I still tremble to think what would happen if anyone at Montclair knew of my part in this "underground movement."
November 1860
Abraham Lincoln, against all odds, has been elected the sixteenth president of the United States. In Virginia he is an unpopular choice. Reaction is strong against him, talk of secession runs high.
Christmas 1860
In spite of everything, a happy day. Jonathan—our beautiful son—so healthy, happy, and handsome, wildly pleased with his rocking horse. Adults subdued under surface holiday gaiety.
January 1861
I write this date with a grim foreboding, remembering other beginning years of such happiness and hope, not knowing nor daring to think what this year will bring to our country, both North and South.
March 1861
The talk now is of two separate nations, North and South . . . yet here in the Virginia spring, all is lovely and peaceful. Out my window I see acres of jonquils, their bell-like fluted heads nodding in a gentle breeze; a quiet, golden hush lies over everything.
Yet, amid all this beauty, like brushfire ravaging everything in its path, are rumors of war and secession. The furor over slavery continues unabated.
Rose did not write in her diary again after March. Her thoughts seemed too dark, too dismal to record for posterity. The question on everyone's mind was whether Virginia would go the
The question on everyone's mind was whether Virginia would go the way of South Carolina and secede. Rose had to know how Malcolm felt and, although they had avoided all discussion of this subject for months, she finally broke their unspoken truce and asked him.
His reply chilled her. "It is not always what a man wants to do, but what is his duty," he said in a manner that closed the subject.
Would he consider it his duty to go with his state?
"If it were a matter of protecting her from Northern invasion."
Rose responded immediately and indignantly. "The North would never invade! We are all one country!"
Malcolm shook his head. "Not for long, Rose, I'm afraid."
"But surely there are reasonable men who don't want a war!" Rose exclaimed, a secret terror clutching her heart.
"Yes, but they are being vilified and called traitors by the hotheads on both sides."
Rose's passion for the truth paralyzed her with fear.
That night, when Malcolm had blown out their lamp and they lay together under the canopy of their bed, Rose wound her arms around his neck, her head nestled into his shoulder. She clung to him, not daring to say all that was in her heart to say. And he held her, not speaking, gently brushing her hair away from her smooth brow. Gradually she felt his arms relax, heard the even sound of his breathing. She knew he slept. But she could not.
Her mind was turbulent with uneasy thoughts of the conversations she had overheard. If war came, where would Malcolm stand? Her heart raced, a pall of anxiety suffocating her. She stirred restlessly. Malcolm's arms tightened and he murmured her name in his sleep, his lips brushing her temple. Dear God, don't let anything happen to separate us, Rose prayed, not sure her prayer would be heeded. Not because God could not or would not answer it, but because man's free will, that dangerous gift, might prevent it.
Not long after Rose breathed that desperate prayer, the day arrived that she had dreaded, yet knew was inevitable. Sick at heart, she made this entry.
April 1861
News from Charleston brings the dire report of the surrender of Fort Sumter. There is no way out. War is inevitable.
Malcolm says Virginia must now decide. She stands on the dividing line between North and South and must choose which way she will go.
Within days after the fall of Fort Sumter, Virginia threw in her lot with the newly formed Confederacy of Southern States.
The news was greeted with enthusiastic support. Rose was unable to bear the elation, the toasts offered, the hum of activity as men came and went on various errands to Montclair.
As for Montclair, it became the center of discussion, debate, and grandiose plans. Talk went on endlessly at every meal as men from the surrounding plantations gathered there each day. Rose was horrified at the relentless vindictiveness of their words, and even when she and Malcolm were in their private wing an uneasy silence hung between them.
At last the fateful day came.
Rose was in her room trying to distract herself with needlepoint when Malcolm came in, closing the door firmly behind. "Rose, there is something I have to tell you, and you must try to accept. I've decided to sign up. I can do no less than the others. Our state is in grave danger of being invaded, our honor violated. I must stand with my fellow Virginians to defend our homes."
The fear that rose up in her was translated into fury. Fury at the senselessness of Malcolm's going to fight for a cause she knew he hated. Whatever the fine and noble rhetoric being tossed around about homeland, a defenseless Southland threatened with violent aggression from the North, Rose deeply felt they were denying the truth. She rose, dropping her frame and yarn, fists clenched.
"Oh, Malcolm, that doesn't sound a bit like you," Rose lashed out at him. "The real issue is slavery, isn't it? The economics of the South depends on these thousands of miserable human beings called slaves! A way of life is at stake . . . nothing honorable or noble—"
"Now you are quoting the rhetoric of your Abolitionist friends," Malcolm objected mildly.
But Rose was not to be put off. She had to remind Malcolm how much he had changed.
"I am recalling some of the things you and I discussed not so long ago!" she retorted. "How can you fight for something you believe is wrong as much as I do?" she demanded. "And no matter what anyone says, the real issue is slavery."
Malcolm turned away as if to leave, to end what his attitude conveyed was a pointless argument.
"I thought I married a Christian," Rose said scathingly, halting him. "You give your slaves biblical names and yet won't allow them to read the Bible to find out about the men they've been named for. What are you afraid of? That they might learn that men's souls are free, that before their Creator all men are equal?"
"Rose, you're wrong. You don't understand—" Malcolm began wearily, as if he dreaded retracing the same path they had been over a dozen times before.
"Then you want to go, don't you?"
Malcolm turned on her furiously. "I didn't say I wanted to go! I said I had to go!"
"Against your beliefs? Against everything you hold sacred? Against your country? Against my wishes? Against me? Why? I don't understand."
"Because I'm a Southerner . . . because I'm a Virginian!"
"Because your brothers have shamed you into it!" Rose heard her own voice and barely recognized it. It was harsh, laced with sarcasm. "Why don't you admit the real reason? You're not man enough to stand up to them. All the bugles blowing, the flags flying, all those wild boys jumping fences, giving the Rebel yell, playing at soldiers . . . playing at war! It's gone to your head. Oh, Malcolm, listen to me . . . listen to your heart!"
"You don't understand, Rose. You'll never understand. It's in my blood . . . I'm a Montrose . . . before anything else. This is my land. They're going to invade us! I have to defend that!"
Rose felt the panic rising, the certainty that all her arguments were in vain. She felt helpless and fearful and yet at the same time, something stubborn, something tenacious demanded she make one last attempt to change what was being forced on her. She knew Malcolm, knew his gentleness, his inability to see anything but good in people or circumstances.
A kind of swift compassion for his weakness softened her voice. Malcolm, Rose knew, had convinced himself that it was right, noble, and honorable that he should go, that the cause was just.
For a m
oment her spirit rallied. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could still reach him by appealing to the old values to which they had both once had allegiance.
"Oh, Malcolm, I beg you, as I've asked you before, let's take Jonathan and go away, live somewhere in peace and happiness. You don't share your father's or your brothers' beliefs. I know you don't. Please, while there's still a chance for us."
He sighed. An expression of sorrow and resignation passed over his face.
"I'm sorry, Rose. Not even for you. I must do what I feel is right. I could not look my son in the eyes if I did not go to the defense of our land—Virginia. That's what it is about, Rose. The land that will one day be Jonathan's. I cannot do less."
She looked at him in disbelief. He could not mean what he was saying. Not after all they had discussed.
His eyes pleaded for her understanding.
Rose met that glance. "You are my husband, and I love you but—I don't believe you. I don't believe in your cause."
She broke into wild sobbing. What Malcolm did not know was that just that morning she had received a letter from Aunt Vanessa, telling her John had applied for a commission in the Union Army. If Malcolm joined the Confederates, her brother and husband would be fighting against each other.
Malcolm went over to comfort her, knelt beside her. He tried to pull her hands away from her face, but she turned away.
"No, don't touch me! Leave me alone!"
Malcolm got up silently. At the door he paused, his hand on the knob, and spoke softly. "Rose, don't do this to us."
"You're the one who is doing something to us!" she flung back at him.
Malcolm shrugged. There was something hopelessly final about the gesture. Then he went out and shut the door. After he closed it, Rose threw herself on the bed, crying hysterically.
That night and the next, Malcolm slept on the couch in his dressing room. Rose lay sleepless in the big four-poster bed in the next room.
Two days later Leighton announced that he and Dove wanted to be married at once in case his company was called up immediately. They had planned a June wedding, but since Dove's gown was ready and she was already ensconced at Cameron Hall, there was no reason for further delay. For Sara's sake the ceremony would be held at Montclair.
Everyone who attended the wedding declared Dove to be a beautiful bride. Her petite frame was perfectly complemented by the flatteringly cut gown of creamy satin, its square neckline bordered with heirloom lace in a deep bertha. Her dark hair was covered with a veil of rose pointe lace seeded with tiny pearls. Lee, looking inordinately proud and happy, handsome in his new Confederate uniform, stood beside her to greet the guests after the ceremony.
Rose, who had watched the couple take their vows, her eyes bright with unshed tears, had silently repeated her own, glancing up hopefully to catch Malcolm's glance. Memory of that day nearly four years ago when they had stood together joining hands, hearts and lives before God, seemed a long time ago.
"Until death do us part" had a terrible new meaning in these uncertain times, Rose thought, and longed to experience once again that precious closeness she had once known with Malcolm.
She reached for his hand, but he had moved away to answer a whispered question from one of the ladies. Rose drew back her hand, feeling an aching hollowness.
A moment later the small band struck up the recessional, then spontaneously broke into "Dixie," and immediately the whole assembly took up the song, ending in wild applause and a few "hurrahs." Rose found herself standing quite alone, experiencing a sense of loneliness and isolation.
She alone did not share the others' happiness. Although she kept a brave smile on her face as she went about her duties, her spirit was crushed within her. Her heart felt bruised from the terrible scene with Malcolm. A scene she deeply regretted. Something had ended with the hurtful words they had exchanged.
chapter
19
THE CALL to arms echoed through the Southland, its reverberations felt in every individual heart.
Fort Sumter was the spur that activated all the dormant independence of the other states, some impulsively, some reluctantly, yet all were stirred by the insistent, oft-repeated cry of state sovereignty and resistance to compulsion.
The Cassandra-like voices that had been raised, both North and South, urgently warning the consequences of secession, were lost in the furious, self-righteous clamor.
War fever raged and, once afire, nothing could halt the spread of the conflagration. For Rose, the war had already left her bereaved. A pall had fallen on the bright and shining joy that had been their love.
In her heartbreak Rose got out her diary and wrote: "I cannot believe that what began with such hope of happiness has come to this. If I could only open up my heart to Malcolm as I used to—but this is no longer possible. He has stepped behind an impenetrable wall, and I cannot reach him."
Her words were smudged by the tears that fell upon the page as she wrote.
The night before Malcolm was to leave for Richmond to join the company Leighton was heading up, Rose lay sleepless, alone in their big bed. Malcolm had lingered after dinner, talking with his father, Bryce, and some other guests.
Would he come to her tonight? They had not slept together since the day of their awful quarrel. If only I could take back some of the things I said, Rose wept bitterly. Or if Malcolm could have seen his way clear to do what she had begged him to do. To take her and Jonathan away—perhaps to Europe, where they had been so happy! Why did he have to fight a war he did not believe the South could win, a war he had no heart for?
Rose remembered hearing a visitor say to the group of men gathered around the table at Montclair one day, a month or so before Sumter fell: "It is foolish to doubt the courage of the Yankees or their will to fight. All this Southern hotheaded rush into the fray, I fear, will soon be put to the hard test. I think it will be a long, bitter conflict. . . not easily won by either side."
Rose agreed, knowing the Yankee spirit of pride and patriotism. She had no doubt of the courage and resolve in her own heritage.
And John would go. John, her adored older brother. Oh, Rose moaned into her pillow, it is madness. Sheer madness. She lay awake in the dark and heard the slow, resonant strokes of the clock in the downstairs hall strike four.
And still Malcolm did not come. She had wounded his pride, insulted his integrity, doubted his purpose, accused him of perfidy. He would never forgive her! Never!
In the morning, heavy-eyed from crying and lack of sleep, she awoke early and found the bed beside her still empty. His last night and he had not come to her! How cold and cruel Malcolm had become, Rose thought, with a hard shell forming about her easily bruised heart. So that is the way he will have it, she decided with a kind of weary pride.
After a silent Tilda served her breakfast and helped her dress, Rose went up the small flight of stairs that led from the bedroom to the nursery for her time with Jonathan.
When Linny took the child down to the kitchen for his breakfast, Rose descended to her bedroom just as the door of the dressing room opened. Malcolm, attired in a gray uniform trimmed in gold braid and sashed with a yellow fringed scarf, stood there. Rose's heart froze.
"I've come to say good-bye, Rose," he said quietly.
She could not answer. He came over to where she stood and leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head so that his lips only brushed her cheek.
She whirled around, her back to him. She heard Malcolm's sigh, then, "I'll go say good-bye to my son."
Rose was aware of his footsteps as he crossed the room, and that he was standing at the door hopefully, waiting for her to say something. When she neither turned nor spoke, the door opened and closed softly.
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself as if to contain her grief. In her ears lingered the words she heard him say before he left, not sure whether she had only imagined them. "Good-bye, sweet Rose."
Less than an hour later, Rose, standing at the window of the bedroo
m, saw Josh bring Malcolm's horse to the front of the house.
As she saw him mount into the saddle, Rose was gripped with panic. Her anguish tore the word "Wait!" from her throat. She could not let him go without begging his forgiveness. The urgent need to be in his arms once more overcame all else. Before he left, she had to wipe away the memory of all the terrible words that had passed between them.
She tried to open the window, but the latch was stuck. As she struggled to loose it, she saw to her surprise a figure coming from behind the high privet hedge at the end of the driveway down which Malcolm walked his horse.
Rose's hands dropped from the window's lock and hung limply at her sides as she watched, an unwilling spectator to the scene that next unfolded—
Not wishing to tell Malcolm good-bye in front of the others, Garnet had gone into the garden where she could watch from behind the high privet hedge until she saw his man bringing the horses around to the front of the veranda.
Her heart thudded heavily when Malcolm finally appeared, looking dignified and splendid in his new Confederate uniform. He seemed to hesitate as if considering reentering the house. Then he smoothed his dark hair in a characteristic gesture, donned his wide-brimmed hat, and walked slowly down the steps. Josh held Crusader's head while Malcolm mounted, then started.
As he neared the place where Garnet was secreted behind the hedge, she dashed out. "Malcolm! Malcolm!" she called.
He turned his head and, seeing her, smiled and reined in Crusader. Josh, on the other horse, halted at a respectful distance.
"Garnet! I missed saying good-bye to you. Wondered where you were. I thought maybe you'd gone over to Cameron Hall."
"No!" She reached up to stroke Crusader's neck. "I just didn't want to tell you good-bye in front of everybody."
She looked up at him, memorizing every feature of that well-loved face, all at once aware it might be a long time before she saw him again. All the old aching anxiety she used to feel each fall when he left for Harvard returned. "The worst thing is I don't have anything . . . I mean, I didn't know what to give you as a farewell gift—" she broke off, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. She blinked and turned away so Malcolm wouldn't see them.