Love and War: The North and South Trilogy (Book Two)

by John Jakes

  “Take care of yourself, Billy,” George said in a quiet voice. “The big one is coming—maybe within the week.”

  “I’ll be all right. I’m not sure our unit would be sent on to Richmond with the others anyway.”

  “Why is everyone so confident of reaching Richmond? People act as if the rebs are all fools and fops. I know some of the West Point men who went south. They’re the cream. As for the rank and file, Southern boys are accustomed to the fields, to rough living out of doors. Their way of life favors them. So don’t underestimate them. And heed my advice. Be careful. For Brett, if for no one else.”

  “I will,” Billy promised. “I’m sorry we differed over the nig—the other question.”

  “I needn’t agree with my brother’s dunderheaded opinions to care about him.”

  George put his arms out. They embraced, and Billy went away into the dark, following the spiky glitter of bayonets, the tap-tapping of unseen drums.

  Constance and the children arrived safely. They brought stacks of luggage, and a package of food and reading material Brett had prepared for Billy.

  Patricia was excited to see the capital and elated by the thought of attending school there in the fall. Her brother, older by exactly ten months, shared the former enthusiasm but stuck out his tongue at the latter—in the Willard lobby. His forceful opinion earned him a whack and a reprimand from his mother.

  George said they all might be back home by autumn. The coming battle would give some indication, anyway. Prices for hiring horses and renting vehicles had escalated wildly in the past couple of days; hundreds of people planned to drive into Virginia to view the stirring event from some safe vantage point. Although George knew the real nature of war, he too had succumbed; they had a barouche available if they wanted it.

  “If I told you what it cost, Constance, you might turn me out.”

  Wednesday evening, George returned to the hotel suite after long hours of attempting to wade through the quixotic confusion of Ripley’s department. Looking grim, Constance handed him a carte de visite.

  “Someone delivered it while I was shopping. I thought we might be fortunate enough to have Stanley and Isabel snub us.”

  He turned the card over and, with dismay, read Isabel’s handwritten invitation to dinner the following night. He scowled at the message for some time before he said: “Let’s go this once and be done with it. Otherwise she’ll keep inviting us, and we’ll keep suffering and dreading it the way you dread an appointment to have teeth yanked.”

  Constance sighed. “I suppose I can endure it if you can, though we both know who’s probably behind the show of friendliness. Old Simon wants to keep you content.”

  He shrugged to acknowledge the likelihood, then said, “Perhaps Isabel actually enjoys entertaining us.”

  “George, do be serious.”

  “I am. It gives her a chance to show off to newcomers.” He scratched his chin. “Wonder what she’ll choose to brag about this time?”

  A whole menu of items, as it turned out. The appetizer was the rented mansion on I Street. They were forced to tour it for fifteen minutes; Isabel alternately called attention to its expensive appointments and commiserated: “I feel so sorry for you, cramped into Willard’s. We were ever so fortunate to escape the National and get into this place, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes.” Constance was impeccably polite, her smile imperviously genuine. “It was kind of you to invite us, Isabel.”

  “Bygones should be bygones—especially in times like these.” Isabel thrust that one at George, who didn’t swallow it. He suddenly felt tired, cranky, and overdressed—a toy soldier. The hilt of the ridiculous staff sword kept knocking against his sash.

  At dinner, the knives were brought out. Stanley and Isabel larded their talk with names of important persons, implying they were intimate with all of them—Chase, Stevens, Welles, General McDowell, and of course Cameron.

  “Did you see his latest monthly report, George?”

  “I am in no position to see it, Stanley. I read about it.”

  “The remarks about the Academy—?”

  “Yes.” It took control merely to admit that.

  “Exactly what did he say, dear?” Isabel asked, causing George to hear a phantom door go bang; he was in their trap.

  “Why, merely that the rebellion wouldn’t have been possible—at least not on such a large scale—without the treason of the officers educated at West Point at public expense. Simon concluded by asking whether such treason was not directly due to some radical defect in our national system—namely, the mere existence of the elitist institution.”

  Elitist. Public expense. Treason. It was the same old crowd of ragpickers, given new respectability by their new red, white, and blue suits. “Balderdash,” he said, longing to use a stronger word.

  “Permit me to differ, George,” Isabel said. “I’ve heard the same view from any number of the congressional and cabinet wives. Even the President expressed it in his July fourth message.”

  Stanley feigned a mournful air, shaking his head. “I’m afraid your old school is in for hard times.”

  George shot his wife a seething glance over the tureens of turtle soup. Her eyes mirrored his misery but pleaded for patience.

  The next knife appeared as the table servants offered platters of broiled tilefish and roast venison. Smiling, Isabel said, “We have another bit of good news. Tell them about the factory, Stanley.”

  Like a schoolboy reciting a rote lesson, Stanley did so.

  George said, “Army shoes, eh? I presume you already have a contract?”

  “We do,” Isabel said. “Profit isn’t the chief reason we purchased Lashbrook’s, however. We wanted to help the war effort.” George couldn’t help a glance at the ceiling. Fortunately, Constance missed it.

  Isabel continued, “I will admit to one selfish consideration. If the factory succeeds, Stanley will no longer be exclusively dependent on income from Hazard’s to supplement the pittance paid by the War Department. He will stand on his own feet.”

  He’ll rest in Boss Cameron’s pocket, more likely.

  Infernally insincere, Isabel continued to smile as she went on. “If each of you manages his own business, it should promote family harmony—something I would find refreshing. Of course we assume the income from Stanley’s ownership interest in Hazard’s will continue to be paid—”

  “You needn’t worry that anyone will defraud you, Isabel.” Constance heard the growl in her husband’s remark and touched his wrist.

  “We mustn’t stay late. You said tomorrow would be busy.”

  False politeness settled over the table again. Isabel was in fine spirits for the rest of the meal, as if she had played a trump—or several—and won.

  In the hack returning to the hotel, George burst out: “Stanley’s shoe contract makes me feel like a damn profiteer, too. We’re selling iron plate to the navy and eight-inch columbiads to the War Department I work for—”

  Constance patted his hand and kept patting, trying to relieve his tension. “Oh, I think there are differences.”

  “Too subtle for me to see.”

  “What would you do if the Union desperately needed cannon but couldn’t afford to pay? What if you were asked to manufacture guns on that basis?”

  “I’d kick like hell. I have an obligation to the people who work for me. They expect wages once a week.”

  “But if you could manage to meet the payroll, you’d say yes. That’s the difference between you and Stanley.”

  Dubious, George shook his head. “I don’t know whether I’m as saintly as all that. I do know our cannon are probably a damn sight better made than Stanley’s bootees.”

  Constance laughed and hugged him. “That’s why Stanley may turn into a profiteer, but you’ll be—always and forever—George Hazard.” She kissed him on the cheek. “For which I’m thankful.”

  At Willard’s, she was relieved to find their son safely back from the encampments o
ver in Virginia. She hadn’t wanted him to go by himself, deeming him too young. George had persuaded her not to be so protective. The boy seemed none the worse for the experience.

  “McDowell’s on the march,” he told them with great enthusiasm. “Uncle Billy says we’ll probably fight the rebs on Saturday or Sunday.”

  Stanley had announced plans to drive out to view the spectacle. Undressing for bed, George and Constance discussed the possible risks of such an outing. She wanted to go and, counting on his consent, had ordered a lunch in a hamper from Gautier’s. George marveled silently; in her short time in the city, his wife had learned any number of things, including the fact that one simply didn’t do business with any other, less prestigious, caterer. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go.”

  That night, Billy wrote in his journal.

  Today my nephew and namesake came over from the city. Securing the captain’s permission, I took him to Fairfax Courthouse to watch the advance. It was a grand sight, with colors waving, bayonets sparkling, drums throbbing. The volunteers displayed high spirits because a fight is now virtually certain. Some units, not engineers but designated so, have already drawn the fire of hidden batteries as they labor to clear the roads of trees felled by the rebels. Our company is to stay behind with the District forces, which disappoints me. Yet I also confess to a measure of relief. The battle may not be easy and sportive—though the volunteers behave as if they expect such. At M.R. this spring, C. told me that prior to a fight, soldiers grow nervous and joke a lot. It’s true; so much whooping and joshing I never heard as I did today. They sang, too—one song, “J. Brown’s Body”—and were so busy with the music and merriment they forgot all else. They do not keep in orderly ranks or follow instructions well. No wonder McDowell is mistrustful. Returning several miles to the encampment by shank’s mare—we found no supply wagons bound this way—William and I passed Capt. F’s tent and heard him praying in full voice: “Behold the day of the Lord cometh. He shall destroy the sinners.” What is that? asked my startled namesake. To which I replied, “I think it is Isaiah.” When I recovered from my mistake—he wanted to know the speaker’s identity—he confounded me by asking whether God had turned away from our friends the Mains. I gave him the most honest answer possible, viz.—Yes, according to our side. But I explained that our enemy counted upon His favor with equal confidence. Young William is quick, like his father; I believe he understood the paradox. Capt. F. invited him to join our mess and treated him most cordially, complimenting him on intelligent questions. William stayed till watch fires shone across the countryside, then mounted his hired horse to go back to Washington, where, I am told, great excitement also prevails. As I write, I can still hear the army in the distance—wagons, cavalry, singing volunteers, and all. Though I have not seen the elephant and would be scared, I now wish I were going, too.

  31

  BRETT MISSED CONSTANCE. THE longing was sharpened because another woman had replaced her at Belvedere. A woman Brett strongly disliked.

  A number of times in the days after Constance left, Brett tried to draw her sister-in-law into polite conversation. Each time Virgilia answered with monosyllables. She didn’t act righteous or angry, as she had before the war, but she had found a new way to be rude.

  Yet the younger woman felt a responsibility to be kind. Virgilia was not only a relative by marriage; she was a wounded creature. The night after George and Constance dined at Stanley’s, Brett decided to approach her again.

  She couldn’t find her. She asked the house girls. One said, with evident distaste, “I saw her go up in the tower with the newspaper, mum.”

  Brett climbed the circular iron stair George had designed and manufactured at Hazard’s. She opened the door from the book-lined third-floor study to the narrow balcony encircling the tower. Below were the lights of Lehigh Station, glowing in the summer dusk, the dark ribbon of the river, and the sun-etched mountains beyond. Smoke and a dirty red glare overlay the noisy immensity of Hazard’s to the north. The factory work never stopped these days.

  “Virgilia?”

  “Oh. Good evening.”

  She didn’t turn. Strands of unpinned hair flew in the breeze; she might have been mistaken for Medusa in the failing light. Brett saw, tucked under her arm, a copy of the Lehigh Station Ledger, which had recently transferred its patriotism to the masthead and become the Ledger-Union.

  “Is there any important news?”

  “They say a battle will be fought in Virginia in a few days.”

  “Perhaps it will bring a quick peace.”

  “Perhaps.” She sounded indifferent.

  “Are you coming to supper?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Virgilia, do me the courtesy of looking at me.”

  Slowly, Billy’s sister complied; her eyes caught light from the sky, and Brett imagined she saw a flash of the old Virgilia—martyred, angry. Then the eyes grew dull. Brett forced a gentleness she didn’t feel.

  “I appreciate that you’ve undergone some terrible experiences—”

  “I loved Grady,” Virgilia said. “Everyone hates me because he was a colored man. But I loved him.”

  “I can understand how lost you must feel without him.” It was a lie; it was beyond her to understand a white woman’s love for a Negro.

  Virgilia sank into self-pity. “This is my own home, and no one wants me here.”

  “You’re wrong. Constance took you in. I’d like to help you, too. I know”—how difficult this was—“we’ll never be warm friends, but, even so, we needn’t behave as if the other person doesn’t exist. I would like to make you feel better—”

  At last, the old Virgilia—scathing: “How?”

  “Well—” Desperate, Brett seized a straw. “For one thing, we must do something about that dress. It doesn’t become you. In fact, it’s horrid.”

  “Why bother? No man wants to look at me.”

  “No one’s trying to rush you to the altar or into the social whirl”—the light reply drew another hard stare—“but you might feel better about yourself if you discarded that dress, took a long bath and fixed your hair. Why don’t you let me help you with your hair after supper?”

  “Because it won’t make any difference.”

  How foolish to think she’d accept help, Brett said to herself. She’s as stupidly ungrateful as—

  The thought went unfinished as Brett studied the other woman. Virgilia’s hair blew this way and that, and she had grown round-shouldered. Though she had lost weight, she still had a full bosom. But it sagged, like a crone’s. Her eyes picked up light from the fading day again. Hurt. So hurt.

  “Come—let’s try.” Like a mother with her child, she grasped Virgilia’s wrist. Feeling no resistance, she tugged gently.

  “I don’t care,” Virgilia said with a shrug. But she let the younger girl lead her inside and down the iron stair.

  After supper, Brett sent two girls to pour kettles of hot water into a tub. When the girls realized the reason, they looked at her as if they suspected lunacy. But she pressed on, urging a limp and unresisting Virgilia upstairs.

  She shut her in the bathroom. “Throw out your clothes. Everything. I’ll find something else for you to wear.”

  She sat in the gloomy bedroom—Virgilia had closed all the drapes—and let five minutes pass. After ten, her irritation changed to alarm. Had the mad creature done away with herself?

  She pressed her ear to the door. “Virgilia?”

  Her heart hammered. Finally she heard sounds. She stepped back as the door opened. A hand extended a wad of clothing Brett didn’t want to touch. She marched it downstairs at arm’s length.

  “Burn this,” she said to one of the girls. To another: “Find a nightdress and robe Miss Virgilia can wear. Mine are too small.” The order horrified the girl. “I’ll pay you twice what the clothes are worth. You can buy new ones.”

  That got action. Upstairs again, she laid the gown on the bed and handed the old linen
robe through the bathroom door. She turned all the gas mantles up full so that the bedroom was bright when Virgilia finally emerged, stepping out almost shyly, the robe tightly wrapped and tied. Her skin and hair were damp, but she was clean.

  “You look splendid! Come sit here.”

  Virgilia took the embroidered seat Brett had placed in front of the large oval mirror. With a fresh towel, Brett dried Virgilia’s hair vigorously—it was indeed like grooming a child—then began to ply a silver-backed brush inlaid with pearl. She stroked down and down while a clock on the fireplace mantel ticked. Down and down. Virgilia remained rigid, staring in the mirror, seeing God knew what visions.

  When she finished the brushing, she parted Virgilia’s hair in the current style—down the center—then wound a strand on her finger and pinned it above Virgilia’s left ear. She repeated the procedure on the other side. “Those will shape into attractive loops.” She lifted the rest: Virgilia did have beautifully thick tresses. “We’ll gather the rest in a net in the morning. You’ll be very fashionable.”

  She saw her own smiling face in the glass, above Virgilia’s lifeless one. Discouraged, she tried not to show it.

  “There’s a nightgown on the bed. First thing tomorrow, we’ll drive into town and buy some new clothes.”

  “I have nothing to wear.”

  “We’ll borrow a dress.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Never mind. I do. Consider it a present.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do. Hush. I want you to feel better. You’re an attractive woman.”

  That finally fetched a smile—of contemptuous doubt. Vexed, Brett turned away. “Rest well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Virgilia remained motionless, like a piece of garden statuary. Brett decided she had wasted her evening.

  For a long while after the door closed, Virgilia sat with her hands in her lap. No one had ever used the word attractive to describe her. No one had ever come close to saying she was pretty. She was neither, and she knew it. And yet, staring at the gaslit image, she saw a woman marvelous and new. A not-unpresentable woman with hair modishly arranged. Even her complexion looked better; scrubbing her cheeks had brought some color, which helped to hide the pox scars of which she had always been ashamed. A lump formed in her throat.