Yankee Bride / Rebel Bride

by Jane Peart

  The last thing Rose remembered was Linny's running past her with Jonathan wrapped in a blanket in her arms, the sound of Carrie's shouts, and Tilda's desperate voice screaming, "Miss Rose, you is on fire!"

  Garnet woke up with a violent start. She did not know how long she had slept nor what had awakened her. She sat up, tensed, stiffly alert, straining to listen. From somewhere in another part of the house, she heard noises, disturbing ones that sent little fingers of fear rippling throughout her body.

  Then she heard the screams, terrifying cries penetrating the thick walls of the house, reaching up into her secluded wing. She threw back the covers. Her bare feet scarcely touched the carpeted floor as she rushed in her nightgown out from her bedroom through the adjoining sitting room and flung open the door leading to the upstairs hallway.

  At once her nostrils flared with the unmistakable acrid smell of smoke. The sound of running footsteps along the polished floors downstairs mingled with the shrieks and frantic cries.

  Garnet ran to the balcony that encircled the first floor and leaned over in time to see billows of smoke and the red-orange flames leaping from Rose's wing of the house.

  The house was on fire! Montclair was burning!

  chapter

  24

  CONTRARY TO Dr. Connett's grave pronouncement that Rose would not last the night, she was still breathing when morning broke on the third day after the fire.

  Garnet had been sitting, stiff-spined, in a chair placed at an angle, halfway between the window and the bed. Hour after hour she remained unmoving, every muscle tensed, every nerve in fixed awareness of the slightest movement from the still figure swathed in bandages. The devoted Tilda was there, too, having tended the unconscious Rose like a baby, changing the linens, soothing her when she moaned in her delirium.

  Now Rose opened her eyes, stripped of the long lashes that had enhanced their beauty. Her lovely, luxuriant hair was scorched all around her blistered face, and her lips were parched and cracked.

  Garnet jumped to her feet, bending near to catch Rose's faint words.

  "Jonathan—" she croaked, her eyes moving to the ambrotype of Malcolm on the bedside table. "If Malcolm . . . if anything happens . . . take Jonathan . . . promise?"

  "But Rose—" began Garnet anxiously.

  Wearily Rose closed her eyes as if to shut out Garnet's useless protest. She knew she could not hold on much longer, that there was only time for the essentials. The effort to talk was exhausting, and Rose sank back into the pillows, seemingly beyond reach. After what seemd a very long time, she opened her eyes again, glimpsed her Bible lying on the bedside table, then turned to Garnet.

  "Read." Her voice was raspy with the strain of speaking.

  Garnet picked up the book. Its well-worn cover was singed; the edges of the pages, scorched. By some miracle, Tilda had carried it out of the burning room and later handed it to Garnet, saying, "Dis is Miss Rose's Bible. She'll be wantin' it."

  Garnet was uncomfortably aware of her unfamiliarity with its contents, as she took up the Bible, feeling convicted by that knowledge. She had often secretly scorned Rose's reliance on Scripture, even openly mocked what she labeled "pious utterances" as a substitute for wit.

  She had never felt the need of much prayer. Life had been such a golden path for Garnet Cameron that she had trod as if all belonged to her, and had grabbed at its treasures with greedy hands. What she had not been given, she had taken.

  She felt none of that assurance now, only a gnawing fear that somehow she had missed something precious and important—that if she were lying where Rose lay now, she would be lost and hopelessly frightened.

  Garnet lowered her eyes to the well-marked page and began to read in a voice that trembled.

  "'I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'"

  A slight smile passed over Rose's mouth as if she had been comforted, and she seemed to drift back to sleep. Garnet closed the book, feeling terrified and empty.

  Outside, rain pebbled against the windowpanes. The sigh of tree boughs scraping the side of the house and the keening of the wind increased the loneliness of her vigil. Mesmerized by the staccato sound and her own fatigue, Garnet's eyes grew heavy. She fell asleep, awakening with a jerk when the Bible slid from her lap with a soft plop. She sat erect, glancing fearfully at the bed. Suddenly bathed in cold sweat, she leaned over to check Rose's shallow breathing. She was still alive, thank God!

  Then she became aware of movement, muffled voices from downstairs. Garnet moved quickly to the door and went out into the hall. At the head of the staircase she looked down into the lower hall and saw a man's tall figure, water dripping from the brim of his hat onto his broad shoulders, his cape making puddles on the floor. Joshua was helping him off with his things. Malcolm! His name caught in her throat. He started up the stairs and saw her.

  His eyes, beseeching, sought hers. "Rose?"

  "Still alive-but barely. Come quickly!"

  Malcolm mounted the steps heavily, almost like a man bound for the gallows.

  Wrapped in oiled linen, Rose slowly regained consciousness. She heard the steady beat of the rain, the slight creak of the bedroom door as it opened. The light from a lamp held high threw a tall shadow against the wall and across the bed. She tried to focus her fuzzy vision on a figure moving toward her to bring it into recognizable form. But it was not until she heard her name spoken in that deep, familiar voice that her heart leaped.

  "Rose, dearest," came the hoarse whisper ragged with emotion.

  She must be dreaming. It couldn't be . . . not possible. Malcolm was far away. Then as he fell to his knees beside the bed and she felt his weight leaning against the mattress, saying her name over and over like a sob, she squinted at the heavily bearded face. The voice was Malcolm's and those eyes looking at her with such love—it had to be! Malcolm! Come home to her!

  God is so good, she thought gratefully and longed to tell Malcolm what she had come to understand almost too late. He looked so terribly sad. If she could only make him see that earthly love is so limited, but divine love can transform—can restore, heal misunderstanding, set one free to forgive. That death is not the end—for whatever we have once loved, we can never lose—

  But there were tears streaming down the face of Malcolm, who never cried. Rose tried to move or smile, reach out to comfort him, but the attempt sent shooting arrows of pain through her and she moaned involuntarily.

  Malcolm's head went down on the bed beside her, his shoulders shaking convulsively.

  "What can I do, Rose?" came his broken cry.

  Rose knew she had to do something to comfort him. Struggling, she finally managed to bring words from her raw, damaged throat. "You've made me so happy."

  "Not happy enough, Rose, my darling. I meant to do so much more." Malcolm lifted his head, shaking it sadly. He longed to take this woman he loved into his arms, hold her, help her, but he had been told the slightest touch was agony for her. Feeling helpless and desperate, he wanted to say something that might give her strength and hope to live. "Listen, my dearest, we'll begin again when this is all over. You and Jonathan and I will go away somewhere, be happy again."

  But even as Malcolm spoke he felt her slipping away. Rose's eyes closed, her parched lips twisted in a travesty of a smile.

  Behind him he heard movement, the rustle of skirts, felt the presence of others. He did not know how long before he saw Tilda on the other side of Rose's bed, bending over the motionless figure. Garnet came and stood beside Malcolm; he felt her hand on his shoulder. Slowly Malcom reluctantly met Tilda's gaze and saw that the black woman's face was wet with tears.

  "She's gone, Marse Malcolm. Miss Rose is wid de Lawd now. Miss Garnet, Miss Rose is daid." Then Tilda threw her apron over her face and moved over to the window, her body shaking with sobs.

  Garnet, with Malcolm's harsh sobs in her ears, groped her way out of
the darkened bedroom into the hall, over to the balcony. She clutched the banister for support.

  Rose was dead. Through her numbed senses, the stunning reality of what had happened and what it meant suddenly struck her. What it meant to her!

  How often she had dreamed of being mistress of this great plantation, envied Rose, coveted her husband. She had believed that Rose had spoiled all her dreams, stood in the way of her true happiness, kept her from the man she adored.

  But now Rose was dead. Now all these things were a possibility.

  Garnet swayed and steadied herself, feeling lightheaded, almost ill. Out of the past the dire warnings of her old mammy-nurse taunted Garnet: "Be keerful what you wish for, child, you jes' might git it!"

  But not like this! she silently screamed. Not like this! She sagged against the railing as rising panic overtook her. With Rose gone, who would take over here? What about Sara and Jonathan and the servants? Who? Fear gripped her and rebellion coursed through her as the inevitable truth dawned.

  "I don't have to stay here! I have my own mother, my own family, my own home—where I can be taken care of, where I can be safe!" The childish words rushed up even as she knew the pointlessness of such protests against fate.

  Garnet knew she must stay. There was Sara, helpless, locked in her self-imposed prison of invalidism, to be told about Rose. And Jonathan! Dear God, that little boy without his mother would be inconsolable.

  "Oh, God! It's too hard, all too hard!" Tears rolled down her cheeks, unchecked.

  As if from a long distance, against the background of the dirge-like sound of the rain, she heard Malcolm telling Joshua that they must have the burial the following day, that he had to rejoin his regiment without delay.

  Garnet knew then there was no one else. After Malcolm left tomorrow, she would be alone here at Montclair with only the tears of self-pity. She brushed them away now, quickly, almost impatiently. She thought of all the other foolish tears of her life. Tears over a dress that didn't suit, a dish that didn't appeal, a beau who didn't call when she expected him . . . so many wasted tears! And now that there were really important things to weep about, Garnet had no time for tears.

  Determinedly she lifted her head. As she turned, she saw Rose's charred Bible on the hall table where she had distractedly placed it. Should it be buried with Rose or perhaps saved and given to Jonathan? Garnet picked up the volume, leafing through its well-marked pages. Strange, how Rose had seemed to find such comfort, such strength within its pages—

  Presently she heard footsteps coming along the hall and put the book down. She would decide what to do about it—later. Right now there were other necessary things to do, and only she was left to do them. She replaced the Bible on the table, her hand lingering for a moment on its blistered cover. Yes, later, when there was time—

  In the meantime somewhere in the house a child was crying. And she must go to him.

  Part VI

  To Everything There

  Is a Season—

  A Time of War—

  Montclair

  1862-1865

  chapter

  25

  GARNET PUSHED open the gate of the spiked black iron fence encircling the Montrose family burial grounds. It gave a protesting creak as she stepped inside and closed it behind her. A brisk wind, rising suddenly, sent a flutter of golden leaves from the branches of slender maple trees surrounding the graveyard, scattering a profusion of color over the newest granite marker. A banner of September sunlight slanted across its surface, illuminating the finely cut inscription:

  ROSE MEREDITH MONTROSE

  1839-1862

  Beloved Wife of Malcolm

  Mother of Jonathan

  "Love Is As Strong As Death"

  Malcolm had arranged with a stonecutter in Richmond for Rose's memorial headstone, but it had taken months for his order to be filled, the stone placed according to his express directions. It was Garnet who had to see to its placement only a few weeks ago—long after Malcolm returned to his regiment.

  So much had happened in the five months since Rose had lost her life in the tragic fire that destroyed one wing of Montclair. Yet, standing in the warm fall sunshine, it still seemed impossible that Rose could be dead. She was so young! Only a year older than Garnet herself!

  Placing the bouquet of late roses from the Montclair gardens on Rose's tomb, Garnet turned and left the little enclosure. Rose was dead, Malcolm gone back to his Army duties, and Garnet left with the responsibility of their little son.

  She walked over to where she had tethered her horse, Trojan Lady, and mounted. Today she was riding over to Cameron Hall to see her parents, a visit she had both anticipated and dreaded. It was always a shock to see her father. Since his stroke, Judge Cameron was pitifully changed.

  Garnet started down the familiar bridle path along the creek, her heart heavy with all the newly acquired sadness. Seeing Rose's gravestone brought back all the trauma of the tragedy—a multiple tragedy, as it turned out. On the very night of the fire at Montclair, Garnet's brother Stewart lay dying of typhoid in a Richmond hospital, and, following his death, her father had been stricken.

  "Love is as strong as death. . . ." The words of Rose's epitaph, chosen by Malcolm, had surprised Garnet, taken as they were from Scripture. What had Malcolm meant by these words? She knew that he was not a declared Christian even if Rose was. Garnet frowned. She hoped he had not gone all religious with some kind of imagined guilt over Rose's death.

  Garnet's old fear of God had come back with fierce intensity, compounded by Stewart's death and her father's illness. How could an all-loving, all-caring God such as Rose had believed in so fervently, do such things to people?

  Garnet gave Trojan Lady a little kick and, with a flick of the reins, gave the mare her head. Then she leaned into the forward surge of the horse's gait, feeling the rush of wind in her face. She did not want to think of things like death or dying—certainly not on a gorgeous day like this! Such carefree moments were too rare for her now.

  It seemed that every day brought some new responsibility—like the arrival of a Montrose cousin, Harmony Chance and her little girl, refugees from a Yankee occupation of Winchester. It appeared the two would be guests at Montclair for the duration of the war.

  Characteristically, Garnet felt the hot surge of rebellion against the fate that had suddenly thrust all these people, all these odious tasks upon her. Her life of leisure and gaiety were over.

  Leaving the woods, Garnet followed the low stone wall into the meadow that bordered the drive leading up to Cameron Hall. She took the fence easily then slowed to an easy canter.

  As the gracious white-columned house came into view, Garnet gazed on it with a fondness one sometimes feels for childhood things. Cameron Hall did seem like that to her now. Something of that long-ago time when her life had been all sunshine and no shadows.

  As she neared the house, she saw her mother in the side yard where part of the formal gardens had been converted into a vegetable garden. Garnet reined to a stop, dismounted, and led her horse over to graze under the shade of one of the giant elms.

  Seeing her daughter, Kate Cameron waved, adjusted the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore to shield her delicate complexion from the the sun, picked up an oak chip basket of carrots, and paused to pluck a late-blooming yellow rose to tuck into her belt.

  The two women embraced, then stood a moment looking into each other's eyes. The unspoken message passing between them was too deep for words. A moment later, her mother's pale, compressed lips curved into a smile and she slipped her arm through Garnet's and they walked up to the house together.

  "How's Papa?" Garnet asked.

  "Some better today, I do believe," her mother answered. "He's resting just now. Mawdee's sitting with him. Before you go, you can look in on him. If he's awake, he'll want to see you. In the meantime we can have tea out on the porch. It's so nice and sunny—real Indian summer. I'll go tell Minna."

  While her mother
was inside, Garnet thought about how different life was for Kate Cameron now. With her husband's stroke and her son's death, Kate's previously sheltered life had taken a tragic twist. In spite of it she had somehow maintained her quiet dignity, her graceful bearing. And now, Garnet noticed, a new, finely honed strength had emerged.

  Rose had possessed something elusive, too. What was it? Garnet puzzled. And how did one go about getting it?

  A sullen-faced black woman came out on the porch just then, carrying a tea tray. Garnet remembered her as a kitchen helper to their cook. She mumbled something inaudible and went back in the house.

  Kate shook her head slightly and sighed. "I declare, the servants are getting so difficult these days. The news of Abraham Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation must have got through to them somehow—" Her voice trailed off wearily as she dragged the rocker into the sun and sat down, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Not that I wouldn't be glad to see the end of slavery," she said, her gray eyes darkening. "I was raised with slaves, married a slave-owner, and my own father gave me ten slaves to bring with me to Virginia as part of my dowry. But my earliest recollection of its evil came when I was a child of five or six, perhaps. And the powerful impression was one of pity for the Negroes and a deep desire to do all I could to help them."

  "But, Mama, you do!" exclaimed Garnet, disturbed by her mother's sad countenance. "There are no people better treated than ours here at Cameron Hall!"

  "Yes, I know, but I have ever felt the guilt of it as a moral burden—lain awake nights wondering if it were impossible for a slave-owner to win heaven. I believe, if the truth were known, all Southern women are, at heart, abolitionists."