Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga)

by Gilbert, Morris

  Luci put her hand on his arm, urging him to look at her. “There has been some talk, of course. It’s inevitable, you know, when a man travels all over the countryside alone with a young woman. People do notice.”

  “Do you resent Frankie?”

  Luci DeSpain was far too clever to give a direct answer to such a question. If she said yes, she would be recognizing the girl as a threat. So she shook her head quickly, saying, “Of course not! But I do worry about you. Such talk isn’t good for your reputation.”

  Paul grinned unexpectedly. “I haven’t had any of that for quite a few years, Luci.” He got to his feet, saying, “I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. Photography is hard work.”

  “Tell me all about what you did,” Luci commanded. She leaned back, making sure to sit in such a way that her figure showed to best advantage, and listened as Paul related the events of the past week. She cared little about the details of the work itself, but was highly interested in the accommodations.

  “You mean you weren’t able to get hotel rooms in the city?” she asked.

  “Oh, I suppose we could have this time,” Paul admitted. “But when it’s really time to take pictures, there won’t be anything around like hotels. The battles will be in the woods somewhere, and I’ll want to be as close to the front as I can.”

  “You like comfort as well as any man I ever saw,” Luci said with a nod. “Your idea of roughing it has always been staying in the Empire Suite at the Spotswood Hotel!”

  “You’ve got that right.” Paul smiled ruefully. “Never saw much fun in sleeping outside and trying to cook over a smoky fire in the drizzling rain. But at least the winter’s over. All I’ll have to worry about is being eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

  “You could have taken a cot, couldn’t you?” Luci asked idly.

  “No room in the wagon for that. But I had a pretty good bed fixed up inside.” He understood suddenly where Luci was headed and added casually, “We carry a tent for Frankie. Just a small one, but it keeps the rain off.” He was amused at how Luci refused to ask questions about Frankie, but finally said, “Frankie worked out all right. She learned her trade well from Brady. And she’s a better woodsman than I am. And a lot better cook!”

  Luci noted the admiring tone in Paul’s voice and the light in his eyes as he discussed his assistant. A flash of irritation shot through her, but she quelled it when he got to his feet, then reached down and pulled her from the couch.

  Paul smiled at her, breathing in the scent of lilac that surrounded her. He put his arms around her, and she swayed toward him willingly and looked up, her lips parted. When he lowered his head, she met his kiss, pressing against him. He savored the taste of her yielding lips for a long moment. He had known women—too many of them—and there was a hunger in Luci that matched his own. And that startled him at times.

  Finally it was Bristol who stepped back. “You’re sweet, Luci!”

  She smiled. Let his little assistant match that! she thought, but said only, “Am I, Paul?”

  “You know you are.” He shook his head. “Women always know how to stir a man,” he acknowledged with a smile, reaching up to touch her face gently. “Good night, my dear. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  Luci watched as he left the room, a slight frown on her face. Paul had said all the right things about his little assistant, and yet…there was something in the way he spoke of Frankie, and in the look on his face, that set off warning bells in Luci’s head.

  She frowned. Perhaps she should find out more about this girl.…

  Paul slept late the next morning, soaking up the comfort of the feather bed. Finally, around eleven, he went down and found only Blossom in the kitchen. “I’m hungry!” he announced.

  “If you gonna sleep all day, you kin wait another hour fo’ dinner!” was the only response he got. Blossom ruled the kitchen with an iron hand, and Paul knew it. He got a biscuit from the pie safe, sat down, and nibbled appreciatively. “Miss Aimes and I missed your cooking,” he said as he chewed. “Your biscuits are the best in Virginia!”

  Blossom was not much over five feet tall, but she weighed enough to be six feet. She was not fat, just strong and firm. Now she laid a baleful eye on Paul and shook her head. “Nevuh you mind ‘bout how good my biscuits is! You ain’t gettin’ no breakfus, so you might as well git!”

  Bristol laughed out loud. “And people say I’m able to handle women! I never could get anything by you, could I, Blossom? Even when I was a little boy, you always saw right through me. Better than my parents.”

  “Dey wuz nevuh able to see whut a rascal you wuz.” Blossom nodded. She was well over sixty, but only a few strands of her dark hair had gone gray, and her eyes were as sharp as when Paul was a child. “Yo’ daddy spoilt you, das whut he done! Yo’ mama and me, we bof tried to tell ’im you needed a stick, but dat man wouldn’t listen!”

  “I always came to you when I was in trouble, didn’t I?”

  Blossom’s eyes softened. “Yas, Mistuh Paul, you did do that.” A faint longing came into her eyes, and she said, “I wisht you wuz a little boy again. I can’t help you now.”

  Paul came to put his arm around her. “Yes, you can, Blossom. I always knew I could come to you. And I still do.” He squeezed her firm shoulders, then said, “Even if I’ve made too big a mess of my life for you to do anything about it now.”

  “But de Lawd kin do somethin’!” Blossom nodded vigorously. “I prayed fo’ God to keep you the mornin’ you come into the world, and I ain’t missed a day since!” She gave Paul a direct look, adding, “And I gonna see the good Lawd answer all them prayers!”

  Paul was greatly moved. This was a part of Hartsworth that he had missed. With an affectionate smile he said, “When Miss Luci and I get married, why don’t you come and take care of me, Blossom?”

  She gave him an enigmatic stare, then shook her head. “Go on with you. Dat young woman done come back; go see dat she comes and eats dinner.”

  “Miss Frankie? She’s back?” He walked to the window and stared at the stable containing the lab and saw a thin spiral of smoke rising from the chimney. He turned to ask, “Blossom, what do you think of her?”

  “She ain’t proud, like some I could name,” Blossom muttered. “Doan know whut fo’ she wear men’s clothes, though. Doan she nevuh put on a dress?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Blossom stood there silently, kneading the dough. Finally she looked up and said, “Wal, men’s clothes or not, dat gal is quality, Marse Paul.”

  Bristol knew this was the highest compliment the slave ever paid a white person. “I don’t know what to make of her,” he admitted frankly. “She works as hard as any man and never complains. But sometimes…sometimes it’s almost like a scared little girl is looking at me from behind her eyes.” He shook his head. “What in the world will become of her, Blossom?”

  “You watch yo’self, Marse Paul,” Blossom warned quietly. “You knows women, but dis heah gal, she different. Doan you be foolin’ with her!”

  Bristol flushed, the direct words of the old woman stirring memories he would prefer to forget. “Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “She’s safe enough from me. I never think of her as a woman at all, just as a helper.” He flushed as Blossom held her steady gaze on him. “Well…almost never, anyway.”

  Blossom studied the man, and all the affection that had built up for him since she had first held him as a baby welled up within her. She had seen him throw his life away, and it had hurt her as much as if one of her own had gone to ruin. It was one of those strange instances of love that slaves sometimes had for their masters that no abolitionist was capable of understanding. She longed to hold him, to protect him as she had done when he’d come to her as a child with his hurts, but he was past that sort of help.

  Finally she did something she hadn’t done for years. Wiping her hands on her apron, she came to him and took his hand, holding it tenderly between her own. Looking up into his face, she whi
spered, “Dis gal is jes’ a baby, Marse Paul. If you cause any hurt to her, you won’t nevuh be no man again!”

  Paul had learned long ago of the deep wisdom this woman seemed to have within her. His eyes searched her face intently; then he said soberly, “All right, Blossom. I’ll remember what you say.”

  He left the kitchen and made his way to the laboratory. When he found Frankie mixing chemicals, he greeted her casually, “Hello. I see you got back.” She looked at him, a light coming to her eyes and a quick smile crossing her face, a smile that somehow had such a vulnerable quality that Paul knew he would never be around Frankie Aimes again without hearing Blossom’s soft voice: “If you cause any hurt to her, you won’t nevuh be no man again!”

  CHAPTER 15

  “WHAT IS A WOMAN, ANYWAY?”

  One thought, above all others, occupied the minds of those in the South. Nothing, not even the war, could stir as much excitement as this single realization: Spring was here!

  Descendants of the Civil War–era Rocklins and Bristols would never be able to experience—or even grasp—the importance of this fact in the lives of their ancestors. Plantations such as Gracefield and Hartsworth were miniature empires, part and parcel of a feudal society that was no less rigid than that of the Middle Ages in Europe. At the tip of the social pyramid were the wealthy planters, such as Wade Hampton and the Lees. Below these aristocrats was a layer of professional men, such as lawyers and doctors. Next came the shopkeepers and owners of small businesses. Beneath them were the poor whites.

  Yet all of this society rested on that which made up the bottom of the pyramid: black slaves—owners of nothing, not even their own bodies.

  Later Americans, except for a few isolatoes who fled the cities and towns to disappear into the wilderness, would have no sense of the isolation of the plantation. The roads leading from town to town became quagmires during the winters, making travel at best unpleasant and difficult, at worst, virtually impossible. Cut off from the large cities and even the towns, the plantation of the antebellum South was an island surrounded, not by water, but by wilderness.

  So it was with Hartsworth, which was a microcosm: a small world in itself that mirrored the larger world outside. The inhabitants of this world grew their own food, mined their own salt, grew their own cotton and wool—out of which they made their own clothing, constructed their houses from their own timber, and for the most part made their own tools.

  Perhaps it was due to such isolation, especially in the dreary winters when even a trip to town was a major expedition, that spring came as a gift from heaven each year. For with spring the roads would grow firm; the biting weather would grow warm and gentle.

  And the parties could begin!

  Marie Bristol had cornered her father in February, when icicles still hung like daggers from the eaves of the house and the biting wind reddened the nose of anyone who stepped outside.

  “Daddy, I want to start getting ready for a ball.”

  Bristol had stared at Marie blankly, then had laughed. “Well, of course, why not? The temperature’s twenty below and a buggy goes up to the hubs in frozen mud. Why not have a ball?”

  “Oh, not now!” Marie had assured him. “But I want us to have the very first ball in the county this year.”

  Her father had agreed, but not before he teased his daughter about her unmarried state at the ancient age of twenty-five. “I guess we’d better do just that if you’re going to snare Bates Streeter. After all,” he had said with a shrug, “got to get you off my hands somehow!”

  Marie had made a face at him, for they both knew she had had several good offers already. “I’ll take care of the party arrangements, Daddy,” she had said. “All you have to do is pay for it!”

  Bristol hadn’t given it another thought—until he came into the house after a two-day visit to Richmond and found the house swarming with activity. He dodged past several of the male slaves who were moving furniture, craned his neck to see over a group of the female house servants, and finally caught sight of his wife and daughter.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded, coming up to stand beside them.

  “Why, we’re getting ready for the ball, Daddy,” Marie said. “You didn’t forget, did you? And I’ve got to have some money to get some new decorations.”

  Bristol shook his head. “Haven’t you heard there’s a war on?”

  “Oh, Daddy, don’t be obstinate! The ball is for the soldiers.” Marie didn’t wink at her mother, but Bristol had the feeling that she was laughing at him. However, since he was himself addicted to parties and balls, he protested only enough to save face. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to go through with it, but I’m keeping a close eye on the expenses!”

  Luci arrived the following day, bringing with her Rena Rocklin, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Clay and Ellen Rocklin.

  “Clay begged me to bring Rena over for a visit,” she explained to Paul. “Poor child needs to have some social life, doesn’t she?” She had found Paul at the Big House and had pulled him aside to explain her mission. She was wearing a light green dress with a short yellow jacket and looked very pretty. She glanced toward Rena, who was being entertained by Marie, then added, “I thought it would be nice for her to spend some time away from Gracefield.”

  “Is Ellen giving her a hard time?” Paul asked, then held up his hand. “Never mind; you don’t even need to answer that. Ellen gives everyone a hard time from what I hear.”

  “She is difficult,” Luci said, shrugging. “But then, we mustn’t be too hard on her. It must be quite an adjustment for her to have to live at Gracefield now and not have the money to be independent.”

  “Some of that ‘independence’ was ill used anyway,” Paul said dryly. “But there’s no profit talking about that. I always liked Clay, and Marie and Mother both say that Rena is a fine girl.”

  “Oh, she is,” Luci agreed, then asked abruptly, “How’s your little friend getting along? Miss Frankie, I mean.”

  “Why, well enough, I suppose.”

  “I’ve decided to help the poor thing,” Luci said.

  “Help her?” Paul was puzzled. “Help her how, Luci?”

  “Oh, Paul!” Luci said with a shake of her head. “I declare, you men are all blind as bats! You apparently can’t see what a mess the poor girl is!”

  “She seems to be fairly happy.”

  “Happy? How could she be happy when she doesn’t know the first thing about being a lady?” Luci nodded, and there was a light in her eyes that Bristol couldn’t quite identify. “I’m going to take the poor girl in hand and teach her how to be a woman, which she evidently hasn’t ever learned. But don’t worry your head about it; I’ll take care of everything.”

  Paul was inexplicably disturbed about this idea of Luci’s, but she shooed him away, saying, “Now don’t you dare run off taking your old pictures before the ball. You’ll be the handsomest man there, and I want to show you off.”

  “You make me sound like some kind of a cute puppy or a fuzzy kitten,” he objected. “But don’t worry; we won’t go to the field. Not unless we get word a battle’s started.” He looked at Rena. “I want Rena to meet Frankie. Let me take her down there; then you and I can have some time together.”

  Five minutes later he was saying, “Frankie, you’ve heard about my cousin Clay Rocklin, I believe. This is his daughter, Rena. And, Rena, this is my assistant, Miss Frankie Aimes.”

  Frankie smiled at once, for she had indeed heard a great deal about the girl’s father. “I’m glad to meet you, Rena. Did you come for the ball?”

  “Yes, Miss Aimes.”

  “Oh, you can’t call me that!” Frankie said at once. “I’m not all that much older than you are. Just call me Frankie.” The girl, she saw, was very pretty but terribly shy. “Why don’t you let me make your picture, Rena?” she asked quickly. “Then you can watch me develop. We can make a nice copy for your parents, and that would be a nice present.”

  A shy smile broke over Re
na’s lips, and she said, “Oh, that would be fun!”

  “Fine!” Paul said. “Make a good picture of her, Frankie. But that shouldn’t be too hard, since you have such a lovely subject.” He smiled, and there was a gentleness in his features as he moved to place his hand on Rena’s shoulder. “We may enter it in a contest, especially if beautiful young ladies are candidates. And I’ll bet we win!”

  Rena flushed with pleasure, and when Paul had turned and left, she shook her head, saying, “I couldn’t win a contest, but it was nice of him to say so.”

  Frankie cocked her head and studied the girl. “Well now, when I was working in Mathew Brady’s studio in New York, Miss Jenny Lind came in one day for a picture. She’s a beautiful woman, but she doesn’t have your coloring, Rena. Too bad we can’t make a color photograph.”

  “You really saw her? Jenny Lind?”

  “Sure did,” she said with a grin. “And lots of other famous people. They all come to Mr. Brady. Come on and we’ll take some pictures, and I’ll tell you about some of them.”

  Two hours later, the two young women were holding a tintype, peering at it in delight. “Oh, I don’t look that good!” Rena protested, fascinated by the image that looked back at her.

  “The camera can lie, Rena,” Frankie admitted. “We can take out some wrinkles and warts, when it’s needed. But that wasn’t necessary on this one.” She was delighted with the portrait; it was truly fine. She’d managed to catch Rena with her lips slightly parted and her eyes open wide with wonder. The picture reflected the innocence and freshness of the girl, and more than any other picture she’d made, Frankie prized this one.

  “My father will like it so much!” Rena breathed. “He’s been after me to have a likeness made for a long time.”

  Frankie noticed that the girl didn’t mention her mother, but said only, “Let’s find a silver frame and make it into a birthday gift. When’s your father’s birthday?” When Rena informed her it was in September, she laughed, saying, “That’s close enough!”