Yankee Bride / Rebel Bride

by Jane Peart

  Rose poured the wine into two small crystal glasses and handed one to him. Their fingers brushed slightly and Rose blushed under his penetrating gaze.

  "So, Rose, how have you been? How is it to live in a rebel state?" There was a sarcastic tone underlying Kendall's bantering question.

  "I think we should observe the truce, Kendall, and not speak of controversial matters." Rose replied smoothly then began to ask questions about Milford, about mutual friends and the family she had left behind. He told her he had seen John recently as well as her aunt and father when John had been home on leave.

  "They all miss you very much, Rose, are concerned about you, grieve that you are where you are—surrounded by enemies."

  Rose sat up straighter and admonished him gently. "Kendall, you forget that I'm married to a Virginian," she admonished him gently.

  "No!" he retorted harshly. "I've not forgotten you're married, Rose, nor that you are married to a Virginian. But that, I profoundly hope, has not changed you, nor made you a traitor!"

  Rose held up both hands. "Please, Kendall!"

  "I'm sorry. I apologize. We'll change the subject. It's just that—it did something to me just now to see you giving orders to that slave. I never thought—" He broke off, his face flushed.

  "This is my husband's home, his people, Kendall," Rose replied, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, hidden in the folds of her dress. She warned herself that she must not get angry, must not blurt out the truth—that she had worked in the Underground Railroad, had taught her servants to read, was living for the day when they would all be set free. For now, she must keep her composure. Kendall must not suspect that there was, within his grasp, a Confederate officer, a prize prisoner that he could take easily, along with a stable of fine horses, a storehouse of hams, venison, valuable foodstuffs for his men who were probably camped with meager provisions just across the river.

  "My apologies." Kendall lifted his glass in a salute to Rose, then said,

  "You have often been in my thoughts, Rose, and I have wondered about you, especially in the unfortunate turn of events that has forced the lines between North and South to be drawn so irrevocably. Knowing you and how you felt when I knew you, it seems very strange to see you"—he made a sweeping movement with one hand—"in these surroundings."

  "Where would you think I should be?"

  "Certainly not here, served by slaves. I would imagine you rather to be fighting for what you believe in."

  "And what do you imagine that to be?"

  "Justice. Equality. Freedom. The things we used to discuss with such passion at your home in Milford."

  Rose touched her glass to her lips before answering. "That seems a long time ago, Kendall. Another time, another world."

  "Yes—another world. I believe here you are insulated by luxury and leisure. You have no idea what the rest of the world is thinking, doing. . . . Rose, you have lost touch with reality. You have been lulled into complacency about the things you used to care about deeply."

  Rose set down her glass and smiled sweetly at him. "I would like you to see something I do care deeply about. My son." She rose, went to the tapestry bellpull by the fireplace, and tugged it lightly. Carrie appeared so quickly Rose knew she must have been waiting in the hall nearby. She gave a little curtsy.

  "Yes'm?"

  "Carrie, ask Linny to bring Jonathan in here, please."

  Within minutes, Jonathan, face scrubbed, hair brushed, appeared in the doorway. He glanced at Kendall curiously, then ran across the room, then buried his face in Rose's skirt. Not usually shy, Jonathan's behavior momentarily startled Rose. She put her hands on either side of his face and tried to turn it up. "Why, Jonathan, whatever is the matter? This is an old friend of mine, Major Carpenter."

  Jonathan ducked his head again, mumbling something Rose did not catch at first. Then, when she realized what he had said, she flushed hotly. Leaning down to him, she whispered, "Where did you ever hear such a naughty word?"

  "That's what Uncle Bryce calls them," the little boy lisped.

  Of course he was right. The only time the word Yankee was spoken in this house, it was preceded by the word damn. Rose could not blame Jonathan for having learned it. But now he also had to behave properly. Kendall had already come forward and held out his hand to Jonathan, who backed away and demanded,

  "Would you shoot my papa?"

  "Jonathan!" exclaimed Rose.

  But Kendall only laughed. "Well, Rose, I see you've got a true 'Johnny Reb' here!"

  Rose gathered her wits together and laughed, too, as she shook her head and shrugged.

  "Go along, Jonathan," she told the child, who ran from the room into Linny's waiting arms. To Kendall, she said, "He's only three."

  Kendall held up his hand, dismissing Rose's implied apology. "He's a fine, handsome boy, Rose. You must be very proud of him. And I'm sure his father is, too." He reseated himself, then smiled as he looked over at her. "He has your eyes, Rose, your beautiful eyes."

  Uncomfortable under his gaze, Rose quickly changed the subject to mutual acquaintances, some shared reminiscences of happier years. Inwardly wondering how Bryce was faring in his cramped, dusty hiding place, Rose poured Kendall another glass of wine, and kept the conversation far from current events.

  Finally Kendall rose, saying reluctantly, "I must go. This was an unexpected pleasure, one I certainly never could have foreseen, but who is to question fate?"

  He picked up his hat, his fine beige leather gloves and stood for a moment in concentration, as if deciding whether or not to say something more. At last he fixed Rose with a riveting look and said, "Rose, why not let me arrange safe conduct north for you and your son? It would mean so much to your father and your aunt. They're not getting any younger, you know, and this may be a long war."

  Rose shook her head slowly. "No, Kendall. I know you mean well—but no."

  "This is not your country, not your fight, Rose. I know you don't believe in their cause." Harshness crept into Kendall's voice.

  "This is my home now, Kendall," Rose said quietly. Her dignified response precluded further argument.

  Kendall slapped his open palm with his gloves. Rising abruptly, he strode toward the parlor door. When he was almost there, he whirled around and took a few long strides back to where Rose was still seated.

  "Rose, before I leave, I must say something." He pushed aside her wide skirt so that he could sit down on the love seat beside her. Then, taking her fragile wrists in both hands, he raised her hands to his lips, turned them over and pressed a kiss into each dainty palm.

  "I have never felt about another woman the way I feel about you, Rose. I never thought I'd have another chance to tell you . . . the things I always intended to say when the time was right. I wanted to wait until I had something to offer you. . . . But Malcolm managed to get to you first. . . . He did not need to come to you empty-handed as I would have had to then. He had all this—" Kendall said contemptuously. "How could I—poor, in debt to my relatives for my education, without any sure means of supporting a wife—how could I hope to compete? All I had was my love. And that I still have, Rose. I've never stopped loving you. Are you happy? Really happy?"

  "Kendall, don't, please don't say any more." Rose tried to withdraw her hands, but Kendall held them fast.

  "I had to tell you, Rose. Forgive me if I have offended you. But fate has brought us together, and it will just as swiftly part us. In these uncertain days, who knows if we shall ever meet again. I wanted you to know that I loved you, will always love you, no matter what happens. I only hope Malcolm Montrose realizes what a fortunate man he is." Kendall sighed, then released Rose's hands, got up and without looking back, left the room.

  Rose sat very still until she heard a shouted command from outside. Then she stood, listening, then ran over to the parlor window and looked out.

  Kendall was going down the porch steps. There was an almost arrogant swagger in his walk as he approached the aide holding the reins
of his horse. He swung into his saddle and whirled his horse around, then raising his arm in a command, started at a gallop down the drive from Montclair.

  Rose, her hands clasped against her breast, watched him go—with him went her past, she thought, and her chance to escape.

  When the last blue-uniformed horseman had rounded the far bend of the drive, Rose rushed into the hall and up the stairs. She met Garnet at the landing.

  For a moment they stared at each other in disbelief, then clinging to each other, dissolved in laughter while tears of relief rolled down their cheeks. Then, as if struck by the same thought at exactly the same time, they turned and, stumbling on their skirts, hurried up the rest of the stairway and into the nursery.

  Garnet watched as Rose found the spring that released the secret panel. At the sight of Bryce crouched inside and covered with dust they burst into giggles of laughter, finally collapsingon the nearest chairs as he emerged, smiling sheepishly, while pulling cobwebs out of his hair.

  That night at dinner there was an atmosphere of mild hilarity. Bryce had raided his father's wine cellar and had reappeared with a fine old bottle of champagne. There were many toasts raised during the course of the evening—not the least to Kendall Carpenter.

  "To Rose's old beau!" Bryce announced, lifting his glass, to Rose's combined amusement and embarrassment.

  When she murmured a disclaimer, Bryce insisted. "Now, Rose, don't be modest. If you had not been the belle of Milford, who knows? I might be in chains now, being led into some Yankee prison dungeon."

  In spite of the merriment that was in part the release of enormous tension, there was an undercurrent of foreboding. Today's incident had been deflected by the remarkable coincidence of Rose and Kendall's past friendship. But it had left its mark. Now they knew Montclair was not invulnerable to the fate of some of the neighboring plantations, victims of Yankee foraging thrusts. Now they had seen the edge of the sword.

  chapter

  22

  FANCY ROSE being so clever," Garnet remarked to Bryce one night a few weeks later at Cousin Nell's Richmond home while they got dressed for a holiday party.

  "Yes, she was the cool one, I'll say that!" Bryce agreed. "I would have spent Christmas in some Yankee prison if she hadn't used her wits."

  "Or her wiles" murmured Garnet under her breath, unwilling to give Rose too much credit, even if she had practically saved Bryce's life. "I wonder just how well she knew that Yankee officer."

  "Well, Rose is beautiful as well as intelligent. I would say any man, Northerner or Southerner, could well be smitten by her charms."

  "Yes, I'm sure." Garnet cut him off. Rose was not her favorite subject, even though she had begun to have a grudging admiration for the girl. Curiosity, as well. Unknown to anyone else, Garnet had slipped back downstairs that day and listened outside the parlor door while Rose was playing hostess to her Yankee friend, and had overheard a surprising declaration of love from him.

  Garnet was slightly ashamed that she had eavesdropped on such an intimate conversation. Her original purpose in listening had been to catch any hint that the house might be searched, but that tender scene remained etched in her memory. Fate, the Yankee officer had called it. Probably considered it an unkind fate that Rose and Malcolm had ever met! In that, she and the Yankee major had something in common, Garnet thought with a resigned sigh.

  "Are you ready?" Bryce's question startled Garnet out of her thoughts. He was holding her cape for her, eager to be off. It would be a gala evening, for even though the reality of the war and its probable length had finally set in, Richmond was still humming with festive activity.

  "Wait 'til I get my hood and muff," Garnet replied, then peered out the window. "What wretched weather! Will this rain never stop?"

  "As long as it keeps McClellan bogged down on the other side of the river, it's fine with me!" Bryce gave a wry laugh.

  After the disastrous defeat of the Northern troops at Manassas, the South had braced itself for a retaliatory attack all through the fall. It had not come, but winter rains had turned Virginia roads into quagmires. With what the North considered discretion and the South called cowardice, the Union forces under General McClellan were encamped across the Potomac, preparing a spring offensive. In the meantime Richmond relaxed and enjoyed the reprieve granted by inclement conditions.

  Garnet and Bryce were on their way to the kind of party that had become tres chic in wartime Richmond. "Contribution Suppers" were gay, lighthearted affairs to which each guest brought whatever he or she could contribute to the meal, masking the fact that food was becoming a costly commodity. But these days under the surface a trace of sadness ran like a dark thread, for many had already suffered loss. Virtually no family had been left untouched. No matter how they tried to forget, everyone knew that less than a hundred miles from the city lay the enemy, poised to strike.

  Garnet fought the melancholy with animation, making even more effort to sparkle and shine in the company of others. And everywhere she and Bryce went that season, she was a refreshing reminder of life.

  Tonight had been no exception. In fact, Garnet had been more devastating than ever. Later in their bedroom at Cousin Nell's, she had tried to hold on to the lightheartedness of the evening. Pirouetting in the center of the room, she whirled her wide skirts gaily.

  "Oh, Bryce, wasn't that fun? It doesn't seem as if there's a war going on at all, does it? I love it here in Richmond. Do you think we could live here after the war's over? Or maybe have a small house in town where we could give parties and such?"

  Bryce shrugged. "I don't know, honey. That's a long way off. I'm beginning to agree with Malcolm that this might be a long war."

  "Oh, we'll send those Yankees packing for good before long, won't we?"

  Bryce looked at her for a long moment, sighed. Under his scrutiny, Garnet felt a small twinge of fear.

  "But we're winning, aren't we?" she demanded, willing him to reassure her.

  "I'm afraid we're outnumbered, honey," he replied laconically.

  "Oh, fiddle! One Confederate soldier's worth a dozen Yankees!" Garnet used the flippant retort Southerners were fond of saying.

  But Bryce looked serious. "We have to be realistic, Garnet. The Union forces have more of everything—men, guns, supplies."

  "Let's not talk about things like that tonight, Bryce," Garnet interrupted petulantly. "Let's try to be happy while we can."

  Bryce crossed the room, drew her close to him in the circle of his arms, then suggested with a smile, "Let's not talk at all."

  There was only a moment's hesitation before Garnet wound her arms around his neck and returned his embrace.

  "I missed you," he whispered.

  "I missed you, too," Garnet replied, realizing with some astonishment that it was true. Of all the attention, the admiring glances she had received lately, only Bryce knew her beyond the pretty face, the spritely manner. Except for her parents, only Bryce loved her just the way she was. With him she never had to pretend to be nicer, kinder, or anything more than she was.

  His mouth on hers beseeched her to love him, its pressure awakening an ardor she had almost forgotten, and she responded with surprising warmth. Maybe she didn't love Bryce with the girlish passion she had lavished on her dream of Malcolm, but there was something deep, true, and real in what she felt for him.

  And that night they found a tenderness in their relationship that was new, enhanced perhaps by the drama, the uncertainty, the urgency of time running out.

  Afterward, held securely in Bryce's strong arms, Garnet fell asleep, her earlier fears stilled for the moment.

  In the cold gray dawn of the next morning Bryce made his preparations to return to camp. When he could get leave again or be able to come to her, neither of them knew as they said good-bye.

  Bryce held Garnet close, kissed her again, and before he left, asked, "You will go down to Montclair soon, won't you, darlin'? I hate to think of Mama and Rose alone so much of the time with Father
away on government assignment. It would cheer them up to see you. Promise?"

  "Yes, yes, I promise!" Garnet tried to hide her impatience. The last thing she wanted to do was go to Montclair, hear Sara's dreary complaints, see Rose's bravery in spite of the fact her brother was now in the Union Army fighting against her husband. "I will. I'll go right after President Davis's inauguration. And the ball, of course! You wouldn't want me to miss that, would you? Then I can tell your mother and Rose all about it. That should cheer them up!" she finished complacently.

  On a blustery, wind-swept March day Garnet took the train from Richmond to Mayfield. The scene at the depot depressed her dreadfully. Clumps of Confederate troops waiting for transport were standing in the drizzle in shabby, ill-fitting uniforms. They looked gaunt, cold, and miserable. It was a far cry from scenes in this same place last spring and summer, when throngs of pretty girls and cheering crowds had seen their sons, husbands, and fiances off to battles they were confident of winning.

  Garnet huddled in the corner of the seat in the dirty, smelly car and pressed her face against the window. She looked out at the bleak landscape, trying to forget the haunted looks in the eyes of those soldiers. Shivering, she drew her cloak closer, then tucked her hands deeper into her fur muff. What lay behind was gloomy, but she dreaded more what lay ahead of her—at Montclair!

  The Montrose carriage met her at the Mayfield station. Mordecai, the head coachman, was there to greet her and despite the abysmal weather, managed to look dignified as he swept a bow that bared his grizzled gray head to the pouring rain. But Garnet noticed that even his swallow-tailed blue livery looked shiny and worn. After Garnet was settled in the carriage, they started the trip to Montclair.

  The winter rains had done their damage, and the ride was bumpy and slow as the carriage wheels stuck and slid in the muddy ruts.

  As they turned up the long, winding drive from the gate to the house, Garnet was reminded of all the times she had ridden her horse or been driven by carriage along this same route—sometimes with happy anticipation; at other times, with a leaden heart. It seemed impossible that so much time had passed since she had come here as a bride. With a strange sense of irony, Garnet recalled the bittersweetness of that day. She had won Bryce and become the future mistress of Montclair only to realize how empty that victory seemed now.