What she saw was a young girl of no more than seventeen, with dark blue eyes shaded by impossibly thick black lashes. Her skin was close to olive and her complexion was smooth and fresh. The girl’s hair was in a style that Susanna had never seen—cropped very short, it was a cap of rich auburn curls that framed her oval face. She was not tall, no taller than Susanna herself, and her figure was slender with the curves of young womanhood. She was wearing a simple blue dress and a pair of black shoes, both rather well-worn.
Susanna was surprised at the girl’s beauty and at her obvious poverty. But many in Richmond were wearing their shoes and clothing to the point of thinness, so she smiled now and said, “Come into the house.” She took Rooney’s arm and, as they turned and walked toward the house, said, “We’ll have something to eat, and then you can tell me all about this outlandish contraption my grandson’s gone so daft over.”
Breakfast was served in the “small” dining room—which to Rooney was not small in any way. She had been informed by Lutie, one of the maids who had awakened her by simply entering the room, “Miz Rocklin, she say you come down for breakfus’ when you gets dressed.”
Rooney had brought no nightgown but had found one in the top drawer of a polished chifforobe. It was made of pale yellow silk, finer than any garment she’d ever owned in her life. She had worn it only because Lowell’s grandmother had said, “Use any of the clothing you find in the room, Rooney.” She had washed off in hot water that Lutie had brought to the room and dried off with a thick, fluffy white towel, and then—she’d experimented carefully with some of the powder she’d discovered in a china container on the washstand. It had smelled so heavenly that she’d dusted herself with it. Then she’d gone to bed, buried in the huge featherbed. She’d never slept on anything but a rough shuck mattress—and sometimes on worse!—and for a long time she’d lain there clean and sweet-smelling and floating on air, or so it seemed.
When Lutie called the next morning, Rooney bounded out of bed feeling like a princess. Quickly she dressed and went downstairs. Mrs. Rocklin was waiting for her, saying, “We’ll have a nice breakfast all to ourselves, Rooney. Lowell was up before dawn. He went to his uncle Claude’s to ask about borrowing some machinery of some sort. But he promised to be back by noon.”
Rooney had taken a seat at the large oak table across from Susanna. Through high windows she could see the spacious grounds roll away toward the road and the woods.
Rooney said little, letting her hostess do the talking, and when the food came, she was amazed—scrambled eggs, fresh hot biscuits, thick-sliced bacon, grits, white gravy, and four different kinds of jelly.
“This one is made from the grapes in the scuppernong arbor,” Susanna offered. “I like it the best.”
Susanna Rocklin was sixty-one years old, but there was only a slight graying of her auburn hair. She had a patrician beauty that had only grown more fragile with age. Her eyes were an unusual blue-green that showed intelligence and kindness.
“Lowell kept you up too late, Rooney,” Susanna said, a smile on her lips. “I gave up at eleven. Did he talk about balloons all night?”
“Oh no, ma’am.” Rooney shook her head, sending her curls into a light dance about her head. “He told me all about how it was when he was growing up here. About all the Rocklins and the people who live here in the country.”
“He loves his home, doesn’t he?” Susanna said, sipping the strong black coffee in a delicate cup. “He always did.”
“Are his brothers like him?”
“Oh no, child! Dent and David are twins, of course. They look like their father. Lowell looks…well, more like me, I suppose.”
“He really does,” Rooney murmured, struck by the sudden realization that the face of Susanna Rocklin had been mirrored in her young grandson’s face. Except for the color of the eyes, they looked much alike. “What was he like when he was a little boy?”
That question prompted an answer that lasted until the sun was over the trees that lined the road. Susanna spoke of her family for a long time, then blinked and laughed in a half-embarrassed fashion. “Good heavens, Rooney. I’ve done what I always hated for grandparents to do.”
“What’s that, Miz Rocklin?”
“Bored you to death talking about my grandson!”
“I wasn’t bored,” Rooney said, offering a shy smile. “You have a wonderful family.”
“What about your own family, Rooney?” Susanna inquired.
“Oh, there’s just my ma and my brother, Buck, back in Mississippi.…” Rooney stumbled through her story, little knowing that the sharp mind of Susanna Rocklin was learning more about her than she would have liked for the woman to know.
“You’re very fond of your brother, aren’t you, Rooney?” Susanna asked gently. “I can tell by the way you talk about him.”
“I guess so.” Rooney faltered and wanted to tell this beautiful and kind woman how much she was worried about Buck—about his future. But she didn’t dare for fear that she might give herself away.
Fortunately for her, Lowell came through the door breezily, saying, “Well, you didn’t wait for me to have breakfast! I thought a poor wounded soldier would get better treatment!” He was smiling and went to kiss his grandmother, then sat down. “Dorrie!” He lifted his voice in a loud cry and, when a heavyset black woman came through the door, said, “Dorrie, are you trying to starve me to death? Bring me some of those wonderful biscuits of yours!”
Dorrie laid her severe brown eyes on the young man. She was the wife of Zander and did more toward keeping the Big House running than Susanna Rocklin herself. “If you’d come to the table on time,” she said with a sniff, hiding her affection for Lowell behind a stern look, “mebbe you’d get breakfus’. I got more to do than wait on lazy menfolks!”
But Lowell charmed the woman, Rooney saw, and soon she brought in a heaping platter of food. He caught at her as she went by and pulled her close. “Do you remember the time I killed your prize rooster with my slingshot, Dorrie?”
“I remembers it. Do you?”
Lowell squeezed her, laughing down into her ebony face. “I guess I do! I’ve still got scars from the pounding you gave me with that peach-tree switch!”
The thick lips of Dorrie turned up into a grin, and her old eyes shone. “Humph!” she snorted. “If you don’t behaves yo’self, Marse Lowell Rocklin, I jes’ might do it again!”
The three of them sat there for an hour, Lowell eating heartily, talking excitedly with his mouth full. He was full of schemes for building the balloon and had become very excited after his visit at Hartsworth, the plantation of Claude and Marianne Bristol. Marianne was the only daughter of Noah Rocklin, the founder of the Virginia Rocklins.
“Box can do all the metalwork here,” Lowell said, “and Uncle Claude’s got a wagon I can have to make the gas-making machinery.”
“To make what?” Susanna demanded.
“Oh, Grandmother, I’ve explained all that,” Lowell exclaimed. “We have to make gas to fill the balloons.”
Susanna had no head for science and shook her head. “I don’t understand any of it.”
Lowell reached over and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to. All you have to do is give notes to all your friends.”
“Notes? What sort of notes.”
“Notes asking them to give Rooney their old silk dresses—and underwear.”
Susanna stared at him in astonishment. “What did you say?”
Lowell was enjoying himself. He had a playful streak in him that David and Dent lacked, and he loved to tease his grandmother. “I said we’ve got to have silk dresses to make the balloon. I can’t go barging in asking women to give me their dresses, can I?”
“But underwear? Really, Lowell!”
“Well, women do wear silk underwear.”
“And how do you know so much about women’s underwear?” Susanna demanded, her fine eyes flashing like fire.
Lowell leaned back and tried to put an innocent
look on his face. “Oh, I hear some of the fellows talking. That’s what they say, that women have lots of silk underwear. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Rooney, I’m embarrassed for my grandson,” Susanna said, her lips pressed tightly together. “He’s got no manners at all!”
Rooney had heard much worse talk than Lowell’s all her life but could not say so. She sat there watching Lowell, amazed at how he could tease his grandmother. It’s nice, she thought. How close they are—how much they love one another!
“I will not write such a note, Lowell Rocklin!”
“Aw, now, you have to do it!” Lowell grew alarmed, his face falling. “I mean—how else can I get the silk? There’s none in the whole Confederacy. And General Longstreet really needs this balloon!”
It took a great deal of persuasion, but Lowell was set on the matter. Susanna felt the business would be undignified. But finally she said, “I’ll not write a letter, Lowell, but I’ll go with Rooney and introduce her to some friends in Richmond. Rooney can do the collecting and see the things get to you.”
“I knew you’d do it!” Lowell stood up, stepped over, and hugged Susanna.
She took the embrace, then stated, “But no underwear! I’m firm on that. I won’t have those Yankees staring at the underclothing of Virginia’s ladies!”
Lowell winked at Rooney, saying, “See how she is? Can’t do a thing with her!”
Susanna laughed and turned her smile on Rooney. “He’s spoiled rotten, Rooney! I hope you don’t let him get around you the way I do. Make him behave!”
Rooney looked at the two, both so fine-looking—and so filled with love. She said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to do much with him, Miz Rocklin. You’ve taught him how to get what he wants.”
“Right!” Lowell nodded. “After all,” he added, “I don’t want much—just my own way!”
The two women laughed at his absurd statement, and even Lowell had the grace to blush. “Well, I guess that sounds a little conceited.” Then he looked at Rooney, and his eyes were filled with pride as he said, “But with a partner like Rooney, this thing’s got to go! General Longstreet, here we come!”
CHAPTER 7
LOWELL FAILS THE TEST
Mark Rocklin’s world had contracted to a single cot in a ward full of wounded and dying men. Pain was to him what water was to a fish—an element that surrounded him. He slept and awoke, but both states were vague and uncertain so that at times he was confused as to whether what he saw was reality or dream.
Time passed, but it had no meaning for him. Vaguely he was aware that men came and either got well or died. One night he came out of sleep to see two orderlies bundling a stiff body into a blanket. One of them said, “Graveyard’s getting crowded. May have to start a new one.”
The words of the orderly had taken root in Mark’s confused mind. He dreamed of a huge graveyard with thousands of tombstones lined up rank on rank as far as the eye could see. They seemed to stretch out into the blue ether of the skies. But then a sinister figure draped in a robe that covered a specterlike countenance came to him, saying, “No room! No room for Mark Rocklin!”
Suddenly the scene faded, and he realized that someone was speaking to him, calling his name. He opened his eyes and saw that it was the young girl who often tended to him. What is her name? Clay said she was taking care of Lowell.… Rooney! That’s it!
“Mr. Rocklin!” Rooney whispered. Her eyes were wide, and she had placed her hands on his chest. “Are you all right?”
Mark Rocklin blinked his eyes, and the last of the nightmare faded from his troubled mind. “Sure,” he muttered through dry lips. “I’m okay, Rooney.”
Rooney’s gaze reflected her anxiety. “You were having a bad dream. I hate those things!” She studied him, then asked, “Can you eat something?”
“Not hungry.”
“You’ve got to eat.”
Mark lay quietly as she turned and disappeared. He was exhausted, and the pain in his side was ruinous. Sometimes it went away, but then it would tear through him unexpectedly, taking his breath and shutting off everything else. At other times it was a dull, throbbing ache, bearable but robbing him of ease. Like having a toothache in my stomach!
He’d been an active, healthy man all his life, and the days he’d endured since getting shot down had been terrible for him. Better to be dead, he thought bitterly, staring up at the ceiling. I wish that minié ball had taken me right in the head!
And then Rooney was back, drawing up a chair and holding a spoonful of hot soup to his lips. Obediently he swallowed it, though he was not hungry. He managed to get down half of it before saying, “I can’t eat any more.”
“You did fine, Mr. Rocklin.” She put the dish down and sat beside him, looking down into his face. “The doctor said you were doing a little better.”
“He always says that.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Rooney shook her head. “He tells the truth every time. If he says you’re better, he believes it’s so.”
Not wanting to argue, Mark asked, “How’s Lowell?”
“Oh, he went home a week ago. Don’t you remember?”
“No. Guess I’m losing my mind.”
“Don’t say that, Mr. Rocklin!” Rooney was distressed and began to encourage Mark. He seemed better, more alert, and she found herself telling about her visit to Gracefield.
When she paused, Mark looked at her with a peculiar expression. “You went to my home, to Gracefield? How did that happen?” He saw her cheeks glow and listened as she explained about how she was helping Lowell with the construction of a balloon. He was truthfully more interested in Rooney’s going to Gracefield—especially with Lowell—than in their project, but he listened as she spoke of the endeavor.
“And we’re doin’ real good, Mr. Rocklin,” Rooney said, her eyes glowing with pleasure. “Mrs. Rocklin, she took me to meet some of her friends, and they got real interested. I go by and collect the dresses every couple of days. And when we get enough, Lowell will pick them up. And I’m going to help sew the balloon together.”
“How’s the collection going?” Mark asked. “Getting plenty of dresses?”
“Well—we did at first, but things have sorta gotten slow.” Rooney bit her lip, then added, “I guess some ladies don’t want their dresses up where everybody can see ’em. Then, too, there just aren’t as many dresses as before the war. Lots of old dresses have been used for other things—bandages and like that.”
“And since no new silk dresses will be coming in,” Mark murmured, “lots of ladies want to hold on to those they have.”
“I guess so.”
The two talked for a long time, and Rooney noted that her patient looked better. She guessed that he was bored like many of the badly hurt soldiers. Finally she said, “I have to go to work now.”
“Work? What sort of work do you do? Or did I ask you that?”
“No, you didn’t. I’m a cook, and I’ve got to go get supper on.” She hesitated, then murmured, “You sure do have a fine family, Mr. Rocklin.” Then she turned and left.
That afternoon Susanna Rocklin came to visit Mark. The two talked quietly, and finally Mark asked about the girl. He listened carefully as Susanna related the visit of Rooney and how she’d gotten involved in the balloon project. Finally he asked, “That Rooney—is Lowell interested in her?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mark. Lowell’s caught up in this balloon thing. He likes Rooney, but he’s never thought of her as a sweetheart.”
“She’s not of our class, is she?”
“No, but she’s very quick, Mark.” Susanna shook her head almost sadly. “She’s falling in love with Lowell; I can see that much. I’m afraid it will end badly for her.”
“There are more important things than class, Susanna.”
Startled at his remark, Susanna looked at him carefully and thought, I know so little about this brother-in-law of mine! He’s the strange one. Something has hurt him dreadfully—and he’ll never s
peak of it.
Then she said aloud, “I think you’re right, Mark. With a little education and love, she could be a real lady.”
“Well, give it to her, Susanna!” Mark mustered up a smile. “You could never marry me off, but maybe you’ll have better luck with Lowell.”
“You should have married, Mark,” Susanna said simply, love for him filling her eyes. “You have so much to give a woman and children.”
Mark stared at her, then shook his head. “Too late now,” he said roughly. Then he made himself smile. “We’ll both work on Lowell. He can give you a room full of great-grandchildren!”
“I’d like that!” She nodded, and they sat there talking until he grew weary and she left the hospital.
“You and Uncle Mark have gotten real close, haven’t you, Rooney?”
“Why, I guess so, Lowell. I hurt for him so bad sometimes, but he never complains.”
Rooney and Lowell were in a small barn that was used for grain storage. Rooney was sitting in the midst of a pile of colorful dresses she was separating. Against the dull grays of the sacks of feed, the yellows, greens, and scarlets of the dresses lent a holiday atmosphere. There had been not so much as a square inch of space to be had in war-crowded Richmond, so Susanna had insisted that they do their work at Gracefield. “You can work on that old wagon with Box, and Rooney and I can do the dresses.”
It had worked out very well. Box, the elderly blacksmith at Gracefield, had taken over the construction of the wagon and machinery that made the gas, and it amused both Susanna and Rooney to watch the tall, dignified slave boss Lowell around in a lordly fashion. Lowell didn’t care, for he admired Box. “That man’s got more sense than Jefferson Davis’s whole cabinet!” he had often said of Box.
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 67