by Judith Pella
“Heard what said?” Jackson asked. “Surely we are good enough friends that you may be honest with me.”
Carolina smiled. “I’ve heard it said you do not attend church and that you hardened your heart toward God after Mrs. Jackson’s death.”
Jackson’s expression grew rather pinched. His snowy brows knitted together, further wrinkling his forehead. “God knows my heart and that it is not hardened toward Him, but rather toward those who killed my Rachel. You see”—he coughed for a moment, then continued—“my Rachel was sorely used and abused by her first husband. They divorced and we married, and folks have never forgiven her or me for such a deed. I always presumed God would be my judge, but instead I find it the pastime of a nation.” He paused, his eyes filled with sorrow, as though painful memories haunted his every waking moment.
“Rachel was a lovely woman,” Jackson continued after a moment, “as I’m sure you found out in the letters. She wanted only that we would share a quiet life together, but it was not to be. I was called upon to serve my country, and given that it was my duty, I could not trade one responsibility for the other. Rachel always supported me, however, and she fully planned to make the trip to Washington when I was elected President.” His eyes grew misty. “She was buried in the gown she’d chosen for the inauguration. She was a vision, Miss Adams, an angel in white. She was buried on Christmas Eve, 1828. Almost ten years have gone by, yet it feels as though it were only yesterday that I watched her pass from this earth. Pass to a place where they couldn’t hurt her anymore.”
Carolina couldn’t think of what she could possibly say that would offer comfort, and so she simply placed her gloved hand upon his bony one. He smiled in appreciation and brought his free hand to rest upon hers.
“Rachel would have loved you,” he said.
“And I would have loved her,” Carolina replied, knowing it was true.
He sighed and drew a ragged breath. “So you see, with my Rachel in heaven, how can I hate God? No, I assure you, Miss Adams, the matter of heart and soul is not one I treat lightly.”
“But why is it that you refuse church? I’ve heard it said that you used to attend with Rachel in Tennessee.”
“True enough, but I always feared that folks would see it as a political ploy. Rachel always wanted me to make my confession before the congregation and become a member of our church, but I knew the newspapers would catch wind of the fact and make a circus out of it. The cartoonists would no doubt have had me nailed to a martyr’s cross, mocking our Savior’s crucifixion. I couldn’t bear the thought of bringing that about, but now that it’s finished, now that I can return a free man to my home, I will honor God and Rachel and make such a declaration.”
Carolina felt her heart soar. “That’s wonderful!” She remembered something her father had said and offered it up. “God knows each heart, Mr. President. You have but to confess to Him, and He will honor your faith. To declare Him publicly is important, for it shows that you are unashamed to be associated and called one of His children, but even in private He hears you.”
Jackson nodded. “I believe that, too. It’s never been a problem accepting what God has to offer. The problem has come in forgiving the wrongs.”
Carolina felt an instant pang of regret. Virginia would never forgive the injustice she held Carolina responsible for. Jackson had already declared on many occasions that he would never forgive those who’d robbed him of his wife. She braved the question that arose in her heart. “What of forgiveness? Will you forgive everyone?”
Jackson’s expression remained rather stoic. “For those who’ve wronged me, I will forgive. But for those who wronged her . . . they must answer to God.”
21
First Step
With the coming of April and the spring thaw, memories of the crippling blizzard of 1837 were quickly forgotten by the small but thriving community of Harper’s Ferry. James found himself calling this place home more and more, yet his heart was not really here. It had been six months since he’d spoken to any of his family, and he hadn’t found the courage to even drop them a letter and assure them of his well-being. He was ashamed. Deeply and undeniably ashamed.
His actions hadn’t been those of a man, but of a spoiled child who, upon seeing that the game wasn’t being played his way, had taken his leave and refused to play on. Now, toying with the last of his supper and considering the next day’s work, James found his heart turning ever homeward. The evenings were always the worst. When the workday was done and everyone went their separate ways, James then realized just how alone he truly was.
It wasn’t a lack of friends that left him feeling so isolated and rejected. He’d managed to make many new acquaintances, among those, the sister of Annabelle Bryce, Mrs. Letitia Martens, and her family. But it wasn’t the same.
Lost in his thoughts over dinner in the hotel where he resided, James didn’t react to the feminine voice that called his name until he felt a gloved hand on his shoulder and heard the voice again.
“Mr. Baldwin. How good to find you here.”
He looked up and found Annabelle Bryce’s amused expression.
“Miss Bryce, what a surprise.” He got to his feet and gave a bow before pulling out a chair for her. “Won’t you join me? I was nearly finished, but I would happily keep you company.” In truth he’d hardly touched his food.
“I’ve dined already, but perhaps you would honor me with a walk about town?”
“With pleasure,” James replied, tossing several coins down to pay for the meal even as he extended his arm to Annabelle.
Once they were outside, Annabelle’s formality broke down. “So how are you? It seems like forever since we endured that snowstorm together.”
James smiled and secured his top hat before answering. “It has been forever, but I’m faring well.”
“James, this is me, Annabelle, remember?” She used a familiar tone and looked upon him with the tolerant expression of a mother to her child. “You look awful. You’ve lost weight. Your face is positively gaunt, and there are dark circles under your eyes. You haven’t gone and caught consumption, have you?”
Rather than being put off by her attitude, he was curiously drawn by it. “No, nothing so manageable as that.”
She laughed. “You must be in a bad way to suggest consumption as manageable. Now, tell me what is wrong.”
James shrugged. He’d never allowed himself to be completely honest with anyone since leaving Carolina back at Oakbridge. It seemed awkward to share his heart, and so he took the conversation in another direction. “Would you care to climb the steps to Jefferson’s Rock?”
“I’d love to, and afterward we can visit Letitia and beg some refreshment.”
Forty-four stone steps had been carved out of the solid cliff to the upper levels of the Harper’s Ferry community. It was said that Laura Wager, niece of the town’s founder, Robert Harper, had overseen this ambitious task in 1817, and now the steps were used with little consideration to their origins.
While the scenic view from Jefferson’s Rock was impressive— Harper’s Ferry was less so. It was rapidly becoming the most important factory town in the Potomac valley, but because of this the air smelled of coal smoke, and a constant clatter of hammers, machinery, canal barges, and trains disrupted the pleasantries of this secluded valley.
Annabelle, barely winded from the excursion, took off her bonnet when they reached the top and let the wind blow through her strawberry blond curls. James thought she looked a bit pale, but considering that winter was just now behind them, it wasn’t unusual to find people in such a state. He also knew her penchant for overworking. Articles announcing Annabelle Bryce’s performances were never hard to come by, and if James had rightly calculated, Annabelle had starred in continuous nightly performances since her departure from Harper’s last January.
They enjoyed a companionable silence while James’ thoughts drifted back to his dismal life. He was glad Annabelle seemed intent on the scenery. Aft
er a time, however, she turned to him and questioned, “So, aren’t we good enough friends that you can share the heavy burden you carry?”
James knew she would ask this before the words were even out of her mouth. “I do not like to burden my friends,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the river below.
“I see,” she said and turned to walk away.
“Wait! Where are you going?” James asked, hurrying after her.
Annabelle’s violet eyes widened. “You don’t want to share your bad times . . . your heartaches. So, therefore, I want no part of your good times. Friendships are not to be based on such superficial foundations.”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
Annabelle adjusted her knitted shawl and squared her shoulders. “Will you deal honestly with me?”
“I’ll try.”
She appeared to consider this for a moment, then turned again as if to leave. “Not good enough, Mr. Baldwin.”
James sensed she would not back down, and besides, perhaps he did need a friend right now with whom to unburden some of his heavy load. “All right, but if you should hate me for my confession, let it be on your shoulders.”
Annabelle turned with a mischievous grin. “Me, hate you? Should I stand in judgment of another when my own actions have been considered so questionable?”
James felt immediately relaxed at this. Perhaps the only one to truly understand such indiscretions as his was one who had had similar experiences. “It isn’t a short story.”
“The weather is pleasant and I have all day.” She walked to a rather large, flat boulder and took a seat. “Pray continue.”
James looked out on the river valley below and sighed. “You see that railroad bridge below us? It was weakened by improper construction. The master plan was good, but the man in charge of construction refused to heed the instructions. He substituted cheaper materials, and now the pier headings have cracked and the bridge is unsafe. Shoddy workmanship and poor materials are to blame for the failures, but the one who is mostly to blame is the man who made such choices.”
“And were you that man?” Annabelle asked softly.
“Not in as much as the bridge is concerned.” James turned to her. “But where my own life is concerned, I alone am responsible for the demise.”
“What is to be done with the bridge?” she asked.
“It will have to be rebuilt, at least the five piers in the river will be. There is nothing else to do at this point; it’s simply too late to merely brace it up.”
“And is it too late to merely brace up your life?”
“I fear so.” The simple reply was filled with emotion.
“So shoddy workmanship and poor materials are the culprits on the bridge,” Annabelle stated, “but what of your own life? What happened there, and what has been destroyed that must be rebuilt?”
James studied her for a moment. He searched her expression for any hint of condemnation, and finding none he began his story. “There was a girl. I was hired to tutor her, and because my parents desired I marry a wealthy woman, I was to consider such a match to this young woman’s older sister. Which I did, albeit not as willingly as I should have. To draw things to a conclusion, I agreed to marry the older sister, but . . .” His voice trailed off as though even speaking the words would forever condemn his soul.
“But you fell in love with the younger sister,” Annabelle finished for him.
James looked at her, knowing the anguish of his soul was surely conveyed in his eyes. “Yes. I didn’t think I had. I thought it was simply that Carolina—that’s her name—had inspired me to return to the railroad. I was grateful to her for her encouragement, and I highly admired her intelligence and eagerness to learn. She isn’t like any other woman I’ve ever known, perhaps with exception to you.”
Annabelle smiled but remained silent.
James pulled his top hat from his head and twisted the brim in his hands. “She doesn’t even know I care for her, and now that I’ve broken the engagement to her sister, Carolina Adams would never consider me for one moment. I’ve acted in a completely unforgivable manner. I broke an engagement, although I allowed her sister to appear the one who had done so. There was a death in the family, and it made postponing the wedding quite convenient. I simply took undue advantage of the moment and penned a letter of dismissal. I broke the hearts of my parents in doing so, as they were quite desperate for me to bolster the family’s failing economy with an advantageous union, and I left without saying a word to them.”
“You said nothing?”
“I left a letter. I tried to explain, but you must understand I wasn’t even sure what it was I felt at that point. I was still convinced that it had to be a simple infatuation with Carolina. Not that I would have admitted to them my feelings at all.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Annabelle said quite seriously. “But you knew it was love, real love, or you’d have never acted in such a manner.”
James’ mouth dropped open, about to reply, but then he closed it. She was right. A part of him had known from the moment he’d first bumped into Carolina at a party in his home. Yes, even then he’d given a part of his heart to her. It had taken very little to offer her up the remaining portion.
Annabelle got up and walked to where James was still pacing and considering the matter. “You have faulty pier headings, and they must be rebuilt. How will you do it?”
James shook his head, trying to figure out if she meant the railroad or his life. “I suppose we must take one pier at a time. Tear out the old faulty pieces and reconstruct the new.”
“And you won’t destroy the whole bridge by working these little things out, will you?” She placed her gloved hand upon his arm and looked up at him with an expression of complete understanding.
“No,” James replied, seeing her meaning. “It won’t be easy.”
“Good things seldom are,” she said with a smile.
“So where should I start?”
Annabelle looked skyward and pursed her lips ever so slightly. “Hmm . . . I think forgiveness is the very best place to start. Although I must admit I’m not very good in accomplishing such matters myself, but I know good advice when I give it, even if I can’t always follow it myself. I think you must first seek to forgive yourself, then ask it of those you’ve wronged.”
“What of God?” James asked. Several spiritual conversations with Ben Latrobe had also been haunting him lately, and soul-searching was rapidly becoming a full-time consideration for him.
“Have you wronged Him, too?”
“I believe I have.”
“Then maybe that is where you should start.” Her words were simple and without condemnation. “After that, you should send a letter to your mother. Her heart must surely be broken by your absence.”
James nodded. “I suppose you are right. It’s just that I felt so confident they would want nothing more to do with me.”
“Then let them be the ones to say so,” Annabelle replied. “They should at least be given that chance.”
James felt a surge of hope. “You are wonderful, Annabelle. I wish I had met you long ago.”
“Does that mean you’ll write that letter?” she asked in coquettish fashion.
James laughed and linked his arm with hers. “Yes. I’ll write the letter. Now, didn’t you suggest we impose upon your sister for refreshments? I’m very nearly parched from all this talking and famished from the walk up here.”
“Confession is hungry business,” remarked Annabelle with a grin. “Perhaps now you can eat properly and put some flesh back on your bones. You don’t want to look shabby when you go back for your Carolina.”
James startled at this. Could he go back for her? Would there ever come a day when she would welcome him into her life again?
Annabelle sensed his concern and patted his arm. “One pier at a time, remember?”
James drew a deep breath. “Yes. One pier at a time.”
22
Battle Lines
“It’s a lovely party, don’t you think?” Julia Cooper asked Carolina.
“To be sure.” Carolina turned to Lucy and drew her into the conversation. “Sarah Armstrong will make a beautiful bride, but not quite so beautiful as you were, Mrs. Adams.”
Lucy laughed and Julia smiled conspiratorially. “You don’t suppose she’ll wear those awful feather contraptions on her wedding gown, do you?” Julia asked in a low whisper.
Sarah was notorious for dressing a bit ostentatiously, and even now at her bridal shower she was decked out in a bold, if not overwhelming, red gown complete with ostrich feathers.
“I don’t suppose Randolph Buford will care what she wears so long as she continues to look beautiful. He’s quite wealthy, you know”—Julia offered the gossip as if it were news—“but very much one who cares about appearances.”
“Wealth may not be enough to weather the coming storms,” Lucy said. “My husband tells me we may well see a complete failure of the monetary system.”
Julia looked at her rather strangely. “Do you really have an interest in such things?”
Carolina answered before Lucy could speak. “Lucy and I both see it as a responsible matter for women to be informed as well as men. We are, after all, the ones who will figure out how to make things stretch to meet the household needs, are we not?” She didn’t wait for Julia’s response but continued. “And while I’m not yet responsible for my own home, I see a great deal to be gained by keeping myself informed. Lucy and I attended a lyceum not long ago that addressed the need for better educating women. Did you know that Oberlin College in Ohio is now offering college degrees to women and negroes?”
“How shocking,” Julia admitted. “Tell me you aren’t considering such a thing.”
Carolina shrugged. “I’ve long held a desire for furthering my education, as you well know, Julia. College has been uppermost in my mind, and now that such opportunities are starting to present themselves to women, it just might make my dreams come true.”