by Jane Peart
In spite of her secret anxiety Garnet soon was caught up in the spirit of gaiety and fun. There was much merriment as they played a game of "Similes" and afterward, gathered around the piano for a songfest.
Earlier in the evening Garnet had been introduced to some newcomers—the lovely Marylander, Constance Cary, and her escort Burton Harrison, the young secretary to President Jefferson. As Garnet glanced across the piano, she saw him standing there, and an idea flashed through her mind. Who better than he to deliver her packet? But how could she pass it to him without being obvious?
Jessie had whispered that he was engaged to Constance and wasn't likely to leave her side all evening. Furthermore, Garnet wasn't eager to chance any malicious rumors by employing her old flirtatious wiles to take him aside.
The solution came shortly. As some of the guests were leaving, Cousin Nell tucked her arm through Garnet's and whispered, "We have been invited to Mrs. Davis's reception tomorrow!" She dimpled delightedly. "It is to be a musicale for the benefit of the hospital. Burton especially asked that you be included."
A perfect opportunity! Garnet decided. Surely at a large reception with people milling about, there would be a chance to seek out Burton Harrison and give him the papers.
There were light snow flurries the next afternoon as they set out for the Presidential mansion. The house purchased for the First Family of the Confederacy was elegant with spacious rooms, high ceilings, and a lovely curving stairway leading from the front hall to the upper stories.
As Garnet, Cousin Nell, Jessie and her escort, Captain Alec Hunter, a physician assigned to the Wayside Hospital, entered the foyer, Garnet saw Burton Harrison standing beside Mrs. Davis in the receiving line.
"I don't see the President," said Cousin Nell in a low tone. "He has been quite unwell of late. Migraine. Suffers dreadfully for days, they say. Then some sort of neuralgia, as well."
If circumstances had been different, perhaps, Garnet would have been disappointed not to see President Davis himself. She had often seen him riding, sometimes alone, sometimes with an aide, but had never been formally presented to him. Like all Southern women, Jefferson Davis epitomized for Garnet the Southern gentleman—tall, aristocratic features, impeccable manners, gracious demeanor. But today Garnet's eyes were focused on his secretary, Burton Harrison.
They stood in the slow-moving line of guests and when at last they reached Mr. Harrison, he greeted Garnet cordially, mentioning a humorous incident at the party the night before and expressing hope that she planned to remain for the musical program to follow.
"Oh, yes, indeed!" Garnet replied, giving him her most winning smile and thereby incurring the disapproving stare of Cousin Nell. "Shall we see you later?"
"Perhaps you could save me a seat beside you?" he suggested.
"With pleasure!" she responded.
In the adjoining room, chairs had been placed in a semicircle in front of the elevated platform on which a piano, a harp, and chairs for two violinists were arranged.
Garnet, who had secreted the small packet in her muff, sent up a silent prayer that somehow during the concert she could easily hand it to Burton with a whispered explanation.
After they had partaken of the refreshments set out for the guests, Garnet and Cousin Nell found seats, and Garnet casually placed her cloak and muff on the one next to her to keep it unoccupied until Burton Harrison could extricate himself from his receiving line duties.
Garnet smiled apologetically to several persons seeking a seat, murmuring sweetly that it was taken.
After several such incidents Cousin Nell asked, "Whom are you saving it for? Jessie and her beau have already found seats."
"Burton Harrison." Garnet whispered back, and Cousin Nell raised an eyebrow.
Garnet mentally shrugged. She could not risk explaining. If Cousin Nell took the wrong implication, it could not be helped. Besides, her reputation as a flirt was well-established, and even now she was probably being discussed behind certain ladies' fans as running true to form—"And her husband a prisoner of war, too!"
In the end it all worked out perfectly. Just as the musicians took their places, Burton Harrison slipped into the chair beside Garnet. The program began and there was no chance to speak to him until the intermission. Then Garnet turned to him quickly. Putting her hand over her mouth so that no one else could possibly hear, she leaned close and whispered her message.
"I realize I am taking advantage of our slight acquaintance, Mr. Harrison, but I have in my possession a packet of papers designated for the President's or General Lee's immediate attention. May I ask you to deliver them?"
Burton's eyes widened and a look of incredulity passed over his face. But there was no time for further enlightenment. He gave a quick nod.
Garnet put her hand inside her muff, felt the edges of the small bundle, and grasped it, drawing it out of its hiding place. Then, under the cover of their printed programs held at an angle, she passed the packet to Burton, who skillfully inserted it into an inside pocket of his jacket.
While the musicians were tuning their instruments, he excused himself and quietly left the room. Garnet felt the release of tension that had kept her in a viselike grip for days. She gave a deep sigh. Cousin Nell shot her a sharp look and, completely misinterpreting the entire episode, bent over and hissed into Garner's ear, "The beautiful Miss Cary must have just arrived! Burton has made a hasty exit."
Garnet only smiled. Let Cousin Nell think what she liked. It was over at last! She had successfully fulfilled the trust Bryce had given her.
chapter
29
IT TURNED bitterly cold in mid-January, and for the next two months the weather alternated between freezing rain, snow, and sleet. Throughout the South the common suffering endured seemed to strengthen an indomitable spirit. The belief that their cause was noble and no sacrifice was in vain did not diminish a heartfelt longing for peace. But that winter, peace was still far away.
At Montclair the outer storms mirrored the turmoil of mind and emotions of the three young women. Garnet, on whom the burden rested most heavily, tried to meet each day with courage and her newfound faith.
Not a single word had come from Bryce since his capture. Rumors were rampant that Mosby men had arranged a daring raid on a prison camp and that the captives had been hiding in the woods, waging guerrilla warfare. But Garnet knew nothing.
In her heart she was determined when Bryce came home—if he came home—it would be to a different kind of wife. Meanwhile Montclair waited in a kind of wary suspense for the return of the Montrose men.
It was, however, an immediate crisis that took their minds off the constant, insidious anxiety that permeated every moment of every day.
One evening as they gathered for supper, Garnet noticed that all the children looked unusually flushed. Both Alair and Jonathan were cross, and Alair gave the little boy a shove as they took their places at the table. He pushed her back, and a squabble ensued.
Dove quickly stepped between them, took a hand in each of her own, and began their mealtime prayer: "Bless, we beseech Thee, those from whom we are now separated. Grant that they may be kept from all harm, and restore them to us in Thine own good time. Amen."
Momentary quiet prevailed as Tilda came in with a tureen of stew, and Garnet began to fill the plates Harmony passed to her. But then little Dru started fussing, rubbed her eyes, pushed away her food, then climbed up on Dove's lap, sucking her thumb and lying limply against Dove's shoulder during the rest of the meal.
"What's the matter with you two?" Garnet asked Alair finally when another little tussle of wills erupted.
Alair gave her golden head a stubborn little toss and lifted her chin. Jonathan turned his large dark eyes upon her accusingly, and Garnet noticed they were glazed and heavy-lidded.
Tilda, who was serving biscuits and passing behind Jonathan, placed her hand on his forehead. "Why, dis here chile is burnin' up wid de fever, Miz Garnet!"
"Oh, dear!" sig
hed Harmony. "If Jonathan's coming down with something, the others are sure to get it, too. Come over here, Alair, baby, this minute. Come away from Jonathan. He's got something that's catchin'."
Garnet had to bite her tongue not to snap at Harmony. As though keeping Alair at the opposite end of the table would protect her if Jonathan did, indeed, have something contagious. After all, they played together constantly, lived in the same house!
Garnet rose from her place and went over to Jonathan. Bending down beside his chair, she asked anxiously, "You feel bad, honey?"
He nodded, his little head drooped and he leaned against Garnet heavily.
"Tilda,I think we best get this boy to bed right away." Garnet said, lifting him and passing him into Tilda's waiting arms. "I better go get the Remedy Book and see what we can find to help us."
Dove followed with Druscilla as Garnet went into the library and looked for the book. With Dove peering over her shoulder, she skimmed the contents until she came to "Children's Fevers." They both read silently, then Garnet raised her head and met Dove's worried gaze.
"The first and most important thing, I guess, is to get their fevers down. It could be any of a number of things—scarlet fever, or . . . ," and they both looked panic-stricken, "or worse, diphtheria or typhoid."
A forty-eight hour nightmare followed. All three children were very sick. Headaches, chills, then high fevers had them tossing restlessly and mumbling deliriously.
So that the children could receive constant nursing care, they were placed in the same room. Only Harmony was not any real help, hovering over Alair most of the time, getting in the way of the others as they changed damp nightgowns and bedclothes, or tried to administer remedies. Harmony cried when Dove suggested cutting off some of Alair's curls, which were becoming tangled from her delirious movement and her refusal to be touched with brush or comb.
The nursing was constant as were the work and chores associated with three children so desperately ill. All the bed linens and garments had to be changed daily, then boiled and hung out to dry. In the uncertain March weather this meant sheets were spread before every fireplace, then often had to be ironed dry to be used again.
Each child had to be bathed three times daily, their dry, burning skin soothed with oil, poultices of hot towels soaked in soda water, mixed with a teaspoonful of dry mustard, and wrapped in flannel to relieve some of the pain, while compresses of tepid water were regularly renewed to alleviate the raging headaches.
The three women, Garnet, Tilda, and Dove, were running up and down the stairs dozens of times a day, while Linny and Carrie took over the laundry and cooking. The three little patients could eat nothing due to the soreness of their throats and their upset stomachs, but Sara, complaining as ever, required her meals strictly on time and prepared delicately as always.
Three dreadful weeks of anxiety crawled by before the three children showed any signs of recovery. By then their aunts and mothers were ready to fall into their own beds from exhaustion and worry.
Garnet found continuous employment for the very first Scripture verse she had ever learned. Some days it was all she had time to pray, during those weeks: "I can do all things through Christ which strengthened! me."
Little by little each child began to come out of the long period of illness, sat up in bed, and, finding the other children similarly confined, thought it something of a lark. To be read to and brought up trays of fresh soft-boiled eggs and dainty custards began to be fun after all the weeks of boiled tea and broth.
To Harmony's dismay Alair's hair began to fall out in huge clumps. The result was an angelic halo of close-cropped pale gold curls that gave her a cherubic appearance far different from the little girl's true mischievous personality.
Garnet could only thank God for His profound mercy in sparing all three children the dangerous complications that were possible with such a serious illness. She found she cherished even more the wonderful treasure she had been given in Malcolm's little son.
The dark days and dread under which the whole household had functioned suddenly lifted, and, to their surprise, they discovered that while they had all been preoccupied with the children, spring had come to Montclair in all its glory.
That year the season seemed especially beautiful to Garnet. The blooming flowers, the sunny days, the singing of the birds like some lovely symphony seemed to say that the war had been just a dreadful dream and not real at all. And yet, the cold of winter lingered in her heart.
When she allowed herself to think about it, her faith faltered. The loneliness, the weariness, the waiting for word that Bryce or Malcolm might have somehow escaped or been exchanged wore heavily. Now the Yankees had stopped exchanging prisoners, knowing how the South needed all able-bodied men to shore up their depleted forces.
Because of Montclair's isolated location, communication from the outside world had virtually stopped. Although they had heard of the terrible Bread Riots in Richmond, when hungry, desperate women with starving children had stormed the capital and broken into the storage depots, those at Montclair had not felt the acute plight of the poor city-dwellers.
From occasional letters Garnet knew Cousin Nell saw first-hand the bitter hardships the war had brought to Richmond, the drastic way the city had been transformed from the quiet charming place it had been.
Sadly "war profiteers" abounded. Gunmakers, contractors, wholesalers plied their trade aggressively and grew wealthy. Corruption, black marketing, greed, and indifference to the suffering of others caused by the very goods they manufactured and created and hoarded was rife.
If there was anything to worry about at Montclair, it was whether or not there would be sufficient fieldhands to harvest the crops come fall. Mr. Montrose had come and taken nearly eighty of his ablest workers to work on the fortifications at the southern harbors where it was feared a Yankee attack might be forthcoming. As wagonload after wagonload left, he promised they would be back in time.
Neither he nor anyone else discussed what was often a haunting horror in the backs of the minds of most Southerners.
Rumors of a possible slave uprising had run the gamut among the white people when the Emancipation Proclamation became effective in January, two years previously. Hatred of Lincoln was at a fever pitch throughout the South, and tales of Yankees infiltrating and stirring up trouble ran rampant. However, at Montclair and at Cameron Hall as well, the slaves still seemed unaware of what had taken place. At least on the surface everything was just as before, with the servants going about their tasks and chores quietly and as usual. If there were whisperings or news circulating of imminent liberation for their people, it was only in the privacy of their own quarters.
Certainly Garnet had no reason to doubt the loyalty of the house servants who had risen to every new challenge with surprising ease and had shown themselves unexpectedly adaptable to the added responsibilities. Tilda had been particularly dependable, willing, and able to help Garnet in everything. Linny had full charge of the three children. Carrie had become Sara's maid-nurse-companion; Bessie, formerly Garnet's personal maid, had become a fair cook.
There was so much to be done every day—the gardening, canning, preserving, and drying of food for next winter—that there was no time to dwell long on the shadow of uncertainty about the outcome of the war. But since Gettysburg, discouragement and disillusionment hung over the entire South like smoke over a battlefield.
It was the children who made life at Montclair bearable. They were allowed almost total freedom because the adults were so busy and preoccupied. They spent most of the day running barefoot to save shoe leather now too scarce to waste. Because of the clothing shortages they wore as little as the black children used to wear, growing tanned and healthy under the summer sun. It was a joy to watch them play together under the shade of the leafy trees near the house.
One day Garnet had just stepped out on to the veranda for a breath of fresh air, seeking a brief respite from the heat of the kitchen where they had been
boiling a mixture of berries for jam.
As she stood there watching the children at play, Garnet saw one of the menservants from Cameron Hall coming up the driveway on horseback, and a cold premonition gripped her. No one ever came from Cameron Hall these days; no one could be spared. Her mother's servants were as busy as those at Montclair. As the man came closer she saw it was Nemo, a younger servant who had helped old Porter in the care of Garnet's father since his stroke.
He dismounted and, wide-brimmed straw hat in hand, advanced toward the porch. It was then that Garnet saw his face contorted in grief and tears running down his cheeks.
Her heart lodged in her throat, Garnet moved to the top of the porch steps and asked through numb lips, "Is it my father, Nemo?"
The man bowed his head, nodding, "Yes, ma'm, Miz Garnet. I's sorry to be the one to tell yo'."
Garnet went to Cameron Hall at once. Kate held her as Garnet wept in her mother's arms, and tried to comfort her saying, "It's over for him, darling," Kate said softly. "He doesn't have to see any more of the tragic things that are happening to the South he loved, the people he cared for so deeply, the way of life he knew. We can't feel sad about that, Garnet."
Two days later, sitting beside her mother, pale, tearless, composed, Garnet looked out the open French doors through which she could hear faint birdsong, smell the fragrance of garden flowers on the soft summer breeze billowing the curtains inward. How could birds still sing, lilacs nod their lavender plumes to the gentle wind, when part of her world had ended?
The minister's voice was reading with the infinite sadness of one who had often, and many times recently, read these same words: "Blessed are they that die in the Lord . . ."