“Well, we know now how bad off she was.” Clay’s whisper seemed very loud to his own ears. He started as though the suddenness of it might disturb someone, but the only one who could possibly have heard him would never hear again. Clay whirled and walked over to the door at the end of the large room, opened it, and stepped outside.
The summer nighttime sky was lit up by a large moon and millions of glittering stars. He took a deep breath, relieved to be out of the room, and tried to pray. Far off he heard the cry of a foxhound, shrill and clear, and subconsciously noted that the dog was on the scent.
Standing in the shadow of the overhanging balcony, he ran his eyes over the grounds of Gracefield. He’d been away from this place for so many years—and now would be away for many more, he feared. After the Confederate victory of Bull Run, some zealots had insisted that the Yankees would never come back. But they had—over one hundred thousand of them under the command of General George McClellan.
Shaking off the memories, he half turned to go back in when a movement caught his eye. It was only a shadow, but as he watched, he saw that it was a man. Clay grew alert, then relaxed. Perhaps it was one of the slaves.
But which of them would be out at three in the morning?
The figure moved across the yard, and Clay stepped out on the grass, walking to the corner of the house. Peering around, he saw the man approach the steps that led to the west entrance of Gracefield. Something about the way the intruder moved made Clay suspicious, and he moved forward quietly, his feet making no sound on the tender grass as he avoided the oyster-shell drive.
Clay had no gun, so he came up behind the figure so close that he could grapple with him if necessary. He could see only that the man was very tall, and without warning, Clay reached out and grabbed the intruder by the arm, saying abruptly, “Who are you, and what—!”
He got no further, for the man had suddenly whirled with a catlike motion, striking out with a hard fist that caught Clay on the temple. Lights seemed to explode in Clay’s head, but he managed to retain his grasp on the man’s arm. He threw his arms around the man, butting him in the face with his head. The blow drew a sharp gasp of pain from his antagonist, but the man did not go down. Clay could feel his opponent’s strength as they struggled, and he hung on determinedly, pinioning the man’s arms until his head cleared.
When he could think straight, Clay quickly stepped back, ducked a hard right, and threw a hard left to the man’s body, following it with a thundering right to his chin. The blow drove his man backward, and Clay went in at once but was caught by an unexpected blow in the mouth. Once more he tried to close with the big man.
The two of them struggled, falling into a flower bed, grunting and straining. They fought free of the bed, stood up, and suddenly the man got a good look at his adversary.
“Clay—!”
Clay stopped short and peered suspiciously at the face of the man who stood in front of him. A pale silver bar of moonlight suddenly illuminated the man’s features, and Clay cried out in shock.
“Burke!” Pure astonishment ran through him, which almost immediately became anger. “Burke, what in blazes are you doing sneaking around the house? A man can get shot for that!”
Burke Rocklin glared at his older brother—then burst into laughter. “What are you doing, jumping a man like that? I’d have shot you for sure if I’d had a gun.” He touched his forehead, then looked at his finger and said petulantly, “You’ve cut me up, blast you, Clay!”
Beginning to hurt from the blows he’d taken, Clay said roughly, “Come on inside.”
The two men entered the house and went at once to the kitchen. Clay poured some water from a pitcher into a basin, thinking with some irritation that it was typical of Burke to arrive home after a year’s absence in such a fashion. Finding a cloth, he dipped it into the water and rinsed his face, wincing from the bruise on his mouth. He washed his hands, noting that he’d scraped his right knuckles, then washed the basin and filled it with fresh water.
“Here,” he grunted, handing it to his brother. “Clean up, and then we’ll talk.”
“All right. Is there anything to eat?”
As Burke cleaned his face, Clay prowled through the cabinets, finding some biscuits. Then he located a large bowl of pinto beans still warm inside the oven. He set a jar of milk and a glass on the table and found the remains of a raisin pie in the pie safe. As he pulled the meal together, he studied his brother surreptitiously.
Burke, at the age of thirty-two, was ten years younger than Clay. He had always looked up to Clay, but the difference in their ages—and Clay’s years of absence—had kept them from being close.
Burke’s the same as he always was, Clay thought as he sat down and watched him eat ravenously. Still wild as a hawk! But he looks as good as ever. He thought of Burke’s willful temper and the many scrapes he’d gotten himself into, some of them fairly serious. Clay himself had been fairly wild as a young man, and Burke’s temper and daredevil ways seemed a mirror of Clay’s younger years.
He looks no older now than he did when he was twenty, Clay thought. He let his eyes run over the tall form, all six feet three inches, and saw that Burke was still wiry and strong. With a wry smile, Clay remembered how his younger brother had despaired of ever reaching six feet in height. But when he hit his late teens, Burke suddenly “shot up like a sprout dying for the light of day,” as his father had put it, and soon towered over most men.
Lifting his gaze, Clay studied the lean face, so much like his own in some ways. Dark eyes, so dark that the pupils were almost invisible, could sparkle or glare from under heavy black brows. The fine features were crowned with the blackest possible thick hair—Burke had always had hair that was the envy of men and of women. Heavy and glossy black with just a slight curl, he wore it long, and now it was hanging down almost to his collar. His face, which had tended to roundness when he was younger, was now hard and lean. His high cheekbones and fine broad forehead gave him a pleasing appearance, as did his broad mouth—which was shaded by a neat mustache—and strong chin, complete with the cleft that marked most of the Rocklin men.
Clay noted the worn coat and frayed trousers and said, “You didn’t come home prosperous, I take it?”
Burke bit off a chunk of biscuit, chewed it with relish, then grinned. “Nope. Haven’t got a cent.”
Clay was annoyed. “Fine, just what we need around here. A broken-down gentleman.” His words, he saw, had no effect on Burke. But that came as no surprise, for this younger brother of his—though he adored his older brother—had paid no attention to the advice of anyone since he was fifteen years old. “What happened to the scheme you wrote about?”
“Scheme?”
“The plan that was going to make you rich,” Clay said sarcastically. “The big real estate deal in Mobile.”
“Oh, that!” Burke waved the half-eaten biscuit with an airy gesture. “I sold out and went to Haiti. Lots of opportunity down there.”
“Oh?” Clay raised one heavy eyebrow. “And what happened in Haiti?”
Burke sopped the bean soup with the last morsel of biscuit, popped it into his mouth, then washed it down with the rest of the milk. He ignored Clay as he pulled the pie toward him, cut off a bit with the edge of his fork, and tasted it. “That’s good pie,” he said with a nod. “I sure have missed Dorrie’s pies!” Closing his eyes, he chewed thoughtfully on the pie, swallowed it, then shrugged. “There was a fancy gambler down there named Ace Donlin. I thought I could take him. Planned to come home and build me a mansion down the road from this place.”
“And—?”
A trace of disgust showed in Burke’s dark eyes. “I guess Donlin will be building the mansion.” He pushed the pie around with his fork, then said, “So here I am, back to sponge off the folks again.” When Clay said nothing, he shoved the plate back with irritation. “Like you said, Clay, you need another useless wastrel around.”
Clay eyed Burke sharply, then frowned. “You know
how things are, Burke. With this war on and no market for cotton, things are pretty thin.”
“I know, I know!” Burke shrugged his shoulders and then let them sag. He looked across the table, and Clay saw the corners of his lips draw up. Burke had a perverse sense of humor, sometimes aimed at his own foibles. His dark eyes gleamed, and he said, “But I have a plan, brother. A plan that will keep me from being a parasite on my beloved family.”
“Have I heard this one before?” Clay grinned in spite of himself. It was difficult to stay mad at this rascal of a brother!
“No, this one is brand new, and it doesn’t involve fast horses or gambling in any form.”
“That’ll be different!”
Burke leaned back and studied Clay carefully. “I don’t know why I never thought of it before, Clay. It’s so simple!” He paused for effect, then put his hands out, palms up. “I’m going to marry a rich woman!”
Clay laughed out loud. “Aren’t you the man who’s always run from a wedding ring as if it were a rattlesnake? I don’t believe it!”
“I’m getting mellow, Clay,” Burke answered, his humor fading as quickly as it had come. “Time for me to settle down. But to what?”
“I thought you got a piece of paper from the university saying you were an engineer.”
“No money in that, not unless you own a big company.” Burke shook his head. “I’d have to start as a junior clerk, carrying a chain for an eighteen-year-old boy!”
Clay could not believe his brother was serious about this scheme. “Got the girl picked out? No doubt you can charm some poor young thing into falling in love with you. You never had any trouble with that! But rich girls are likely to have parents who’d like their son-in-law to have more than the clothes on his back.”
“I can charm the girl’s mama—and the papa, too.”
Clay stared at his brother’s smooth face. “I never know when you’re joking, Burke.”
“I’m serious about this,” Burke replied. His mouth drew tight, and he nodded adamantly. “I’ll make a good husband, Clay. Got most of my foolishness behind me. And I’ve gotten to where I know plantations. All I need is a beautiful girl—an only child, preferably—with rather elderly parents. They’ll be worried about what happens to their little girl when they’re gone, and I’ll be there to take care of her. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“You only left one thing out, Burke. For every rich girl, there’s about fifty poor young men standing in line to ‘help’ her manage her money.”
“Competition never bothered me.” Burke took another bite of the pie. “Now tell me, what’s going on around here? I haven’t got a letter for weeks.”
“Ellen died last Thursday,” Clay answered simply.
Burke blinked and stopped chewing. Quickly he swallowed the bite, then said quietly, “I’m sorry, Clay.” The words seemed inadequate, and he asked, “What was it?”
Clay hesitated, not knowing how much of the tragic story of Ellen’s death he should reveal. The bare truth was that Ellen, her mind affected by her physical problem, had fallen into a jealous rage, convincing herself that Clay and Melora Yancy were having an affair. Nursing the suspicion until it became a certainty in her mind, Ellen had finally sent word for Melora to meet her at an abandoned sawmill, deep in the woods. When Melora arrived, Ellen had pulled out a pistol and tried to kill her. The shot had only grazed Melora’s neck, but it had startled the horse attached to Ellen’s buggy, causing it to bolt. Unable to hold on to the seat, Ellen was thrown down an incline and critically injured. Melora had gone at once for help, but by the time they got Ellen back home and under a doctor’s care, it was obvious that she was dying.
All this ran through Clay’s mind as he faced his brother’s sympathy, but he said only, “She was thrown from her buggy in an accident, Burke. She lived only a day.”
Burke dropped his eyes, ashamed of his light talk. “I wish you’d told me earlier, Clay. I wouldn’t have acted such a fool.”
“It’s all right, Burke,” Clay answered reassuringly. “In a way, Ellen’s better off.”
“Better off?” Burke looked up with surprise in his dark eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You can imagine how miserable she’d be, confined to a wheelchair,” Clay said slowly. “Now she’s free from those restrictions. And just before she died, Melora was able to help her in a wonderful way—she led Ellen to faith in Jesus.” Clay rubbed the bruise on his jaw absently. “I think the last hours of Ellen’s life were the only ones that held any joy for her.”
Not being a man of faith, Burke wanted to argue with this. But he knew his brother’s stand on God, so instead he merely asked, “How are the children taking it?”
Clay thought about the question for a long moment. “Better than I expected.” He shuddered, then said, “The funeral is tomorrow. Sorry to spoil your homecoming, Burke.”
Burke Rocklin was not a man to show his feelings much, but now compassion was on his face. Although he had idolized his older brother, they had never been very close because of their age difference. But he knew enough about him to realize the suffering that Clay had gone through. He sat there trying to think of something fitting to say, but could not manage it.
Seeing Burke’s embarrassment, Clay stood up. “Go get some sleep, Burke. We’ll talk more later.”
Burke mumbled a good-night, pushed back his chair, and left. Clay returned to the parlor, going to stand beside the casket. He looked down on Ellen’s still, white face. Knowing that the next day would be filled with emotional turmoil and tension—as most funerals were—he reached out and touched her hair.
“Good-bye, Ellen,” he whispered. “I wish I’d done better by you!”
Then he went to the chair and sat down, waiting for the sunrise.
The funeral was held in the white church three miles from Gracefield. The sanctuary was filled—every pew was packed. Clay had chosen ten o’clock in the morning for the service, knowing that the church would be sweltering if it were held at the customary hour of two in the afternoon.
Clay sat silently between Dent and Rena, with Lowell and David flanking them. Many uncles and aunts were there, along with cousins. Many of the men wore Confederate uniforms, several of them officers.
Clay heard little of the sermon. He was thinking of Rena most of all. He glanced at her from time to time, noting the pallor of her cheeks. He gently took her hand when he saw she was trembling, and she grasped it hard, looking up at him for reassurance. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and Clay was glad he was there. She’s going to need a lot of love, he thought. And I won’t be here to give it to her. That was the way of a war. It tore men away when they were needed most. Unlike most Southerners, Clay didn’t believe in the Cause. He hated slavery with a passion, but he had chosen to stay with his state and his family rather than join the Union forces. And then his love for his sons had compelled him to join them in the Confederate Army.…
He looked more than once at his father, Thomas, and saw that the sickness that had plagued him for the past two years had made an old man out of him. Thomas Rocklin had been a fine-looking man for many years, but now he was stooped, and his legs trembled as he walked. His cheeks were pallid, his hair thin and gray. Clay glanced at his mother, Susanna, thinking, She looks more like his daughter than his wife! His mother’s auburn hair was sprinkled with silver, but she retained much of the beauty of her youth. She caught his glance, and compassion came to her eyes as she nodded slightly at him.
Finally the service ended, and the visitors were permitted to pass by the coffin before the family did, for one last glimpse of the dead woman. When all but the family were outside, Clay stood up along with the others. He waited until all had passed by, then said, “Come, children. We’ll say good-bye together.”
The boys went first, Dent and David, the twins, then Lowell, the youngest. Clay took Rena’s arm, and the two of them came to join the boys. Clay felt Rena tremble and held her tightly. “She’s happy now,” h
e said quietly. “I thank our God that she found Jesus.” Rena began to weep, and Clay felt tears of grief sting his own eyes. He knew that if Ellen had gone out to meet her God unprepared, he would have been stricken for the rest of his life.
They turned and left, going outside to the open grave just south of the church. The crowd made a circle, with the family in close. The minister read the scripture, then prayed a brief prayer…and it was over.
All except the worst part—for Clay, at least. For now was when the family must stand and receive people’s condolences.
Clay stood there, his face tight, saying to each person, “Thank you—,” but the faces were a blur, and he longed for it to be over.
And then it was Melora who was standing in front of him, holding one of his hands and one of Rena’s. She was wearing black, and her eyes were filled with peace as she said, “God is on His throne, isn’t He?” She moved forward and embraced Rena, whispering, “We must help each other now, Rena!”
“Yes!” Rena held Melora fast, clinging to her for a long moment. “Will—will I see you, Melora?” she asked as she drew back.
“Yes, Rena,” Melora said. Then she extended her hand to Clay. When he took it, she said quietly, “God be with you and give you peace, Clay.”
Clay nodded, his lips dry. He had loved this woman for years—as she had loved him—but they had been faithful to God and to Clay’s marriage. Despite Ellen’s suspicions, Clay and Melora had never been more than dear friends. “You were a blessing to Ellen, Melora,” he said now. “Thank you for helping her.”
Melora turned, not unaware of the glances she received from some standing nearby. She made no sign that she noticed, but she knew that she and Clay would be the target of many eyes in the future. Gossip had been rampant about them for a long time, but Melora had never shown any anger toward those who were unkind. There was a rare sweetness in her that stemmed from her desire and determination to honor her Lord. She had fallen in love with Clay Rocklin when she was a mere child. From that first affection, she had found love growing, and by the time she was a mature woman, she knew that there was no other man in the world for her. Even so, she and Clay had long ago faced up to the sad truth that they could never share more than friendship and respect. Clay had a wife, and for both of them, that settled the matter. Neither she nor Clay would dishonor their God—or their love—by breaking his wedding vows to Ellen.
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 38