American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “…dreadful… arm looks badly hurt… can’t believe her father kept him on….”

  “Are he and the Beaumont girl…”

  They passed around a corner and out of sight. Veronica smiled to herself and went inside. As the door closed behind her she proceeded to move about, aimlessly looking at this and that, waiting for Mrs. Baker’s curiosity to mount. Out of the corner of her eye, Veronica saw the proprietress move toward the window and glance out.

  “Is that Seth Davidson in your carriage there, Veronica, my dear?” she finally asked.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Veronica nonchalantly. “He is recuperating, you know. We thought he needed to get out, his mother and I. So Seth and I are doing a few errands together.”

  She paused and smiled. “Dear Mrs. Davidson…,” she said, “she is so sweet, why she treats me… almost like a daughter.”

  Veronica stopped abruptly and covered her mouth.

  “Oops, I didn’t mean to say that!” she said. “Pretend you never heard a word, Mrs. Baker. Promise me you will say nothing.”

  The storekeeper nodded her head vigorously. But her ears were burning.

  When they left town thirty or forty minutes later, after a few more trivial stops, Veronica was pleased with the day’s outing. They had been seen together by enough of the town’s busybodies and gossips in whose hearing she had dropped enough tantalizing tidbits to insure that tongues were set wagging.

  Now all she had to do was wait, and continue to play her dutiful, responsible, concerned, supportive, wifely role.

  Thereafter, Veronica took to visiting Seth at Greenwood almost every day, making sure she was seen as she passed through town, continuing to dress matronly and carrying herself with grave expression, always stopping in at some store or another for a few idle but carefully chosen words here, a few additional hints there, all designed to convey the impression of an ever closer knot being slowly and invisibly tied between the young people of the two plantations which lay to the west and to the east of town.

  She made sure, as the whispers began to circulate, that no thread could be traced to her. She wanted Seth to get wind of them, and then, with a shy smile of pleasure, she would blushingly profess herself as surprised by them as he.

  Oh, Seth, she would say, but just think… it might be true after all, if we… that is… as she turned away with reddened cheeks and a shy smile, as if suddenly realizing she had said too much.

  The rumors regarding the second-born offspring of the two plantation owners were not long in sprouting.

  The whisper, in its first germinal form, merely said, as all the ladies had noticed, that Veronica Beaumont seemed changed, and in its second stage it only amounted to this, that Seth Davidson’s heroic behavior had certainly calmed her down and, others asserted, begun to make a woman of her. It was added, so people said, that Seth had nearly been killed defending her honor, and what more could a woman want in a man than one who was willing to give his life protecting her?

  In the third stage of its development—as significant glances were exchanged—it was observed that the two young people were spending more and more time together after the incident, and behaving as if they were closer than ever. Some said there had been talk between Mrs. Davidson and the Beaumont girl as mother and daughter. Others said Veronica spent just as much time at Greenwood as she did her own home.

  “Have the young man and the girl’s father spoken together?” someone wondered.

  No one knew. But even that could not change how things stood. It would certainly happen before long. It was how these things were arranged.

  And slowly in ever widening circles, as March gave way to April and April gave way to May, and as the reports took on a life of their own—not a soul in town suspecting that a whole family of runaway slaves was hiding out under the very nose of the daughter of the local Commissioner—the word eventually spread so thoroughly as to be accepted as common knowledge that Veronica Beaumont and Seth Davidson were all but ready to formally announce their engagement.

  Thus was deepened the involvement between the two families, entangling the two principal men in Veronica’s life no less that it was occurring against their own wills. Lady Daphne picked up fragments of the rumors with ambivalent feelings. She wanted Veronica to have whatever she wanted. She could probably learn to like Carolyn if she tried.

  Denton Beaumont, however, was anything but pleased when the rumors began to filter into his own hearing. His thoughts were not so congenial toward the proposed union as his wife’s. The fool had probably saved him from being grandfather to a bastard black child and forever ruining his chances of holding political office. He should be grateful. But the thought of being beholden to Richmond Davidson’s son nearly drove him mad. The thought of his daughter marrying the imbecile was intolerable.

  Yet what could he do? Seth had become a local hero. The engagement would seem already a fait accompli. For him to spurn young Davidson now would make him look like an ungrateful idiot.

  Bah! He could hardly stand the thought of the thing! Yet if he attempted to deny his daughter, she could make his life miserable. She would probably run off with him anyway.

  Denton Beaumont knew that he was between the proverbial rock and a hard place. But his daughter held all the cards.

  Fifty

  Cherity Waters sat in her upstairs bedroom at home in Boston, gazing again at the tintype of her mother. The old black Bible lay on the desk beside her.

  All her life her image of God had been fashioned by this picture of her mother in her hand—faint, distant, small, and in sepia tones rather than the colors of real life. Whenever she heard the word God, her subconscious called up sensations of silence, mystery, unresponsiveness. God and her mother had always been linked. Before the three ladies from the church, her mother was the only person she knew of who took God seriously. In her little girl’s mind, how could God and her mother not somehow be alike?

  The church service sorely disappointed her. She had gone in hope and left in confusion. She had hoped to find out that there might be more to God. Apparently there wasn’t.

  She picked up the Bible and again flipped through the pages. But her interest in it was gone. The underlinings and notes no longer drew her as before. They had become as lifeless as the tiny photo.

  The talk with the three women had quelled her hunger to know more about this book. It was written in a language that didn’t make sense to her. It wasn’t merely the odd words and old-fashioned language. It was the harsh negativity of the women’s hearts even as their faces smiled with pretended love. If God was so caring, why did they talk about judgment and the wages of sin and death and hell before telling people what that love might mean? In spite of their affected kindness, she had come away with the distinct feeling that the only way she, or anyone else, could be acceptable in their eyes was to admit what horrible sinners they were. Was that all they could think of? She didn’t like it. It was so negative and critical.

  She would like to know what God’s love might mean. But how was she to find out? Who could tell her? Who could show her such love?

  “Why are you dead, Mother?” she whispered, still gazing at the photograph. “I wanted to know you. Why must I live without you?”

  But there was no reply. There never was. The room remained silent. The photograph revealed its secrets no more readily than did the Bible. There were no more answers from God than there were from her silent dead mother.

  Slowly Cherity set the picture down.

  Gradually the questions in her mind drifted in another direction, though Cherity hardly realized to whom she had begun to speak.

  Why did you let her die? If you were going to give me a mother, why did you take her from me? Where did I come from? Who gave me life… you, Mother… or you, God? How can I still be alive, if I came from you, but neither of you are alive? Am I really going to go to hell just because I can’t see you and hear you? Is heaven going to be full of people like those three women?


  She paused and breathed deeply two or three times. The question her brain had just posed jolted her back to the present. She smiled a little morosely. If so, she said to herself, maybe I don’t want to go there anyway.

  Cherity hardly recognized the extent of change within her own heart since the church service. Nor was she aware that her questions were no longer those of a little girl who yearned for her mother’s arms but rather were questions that reflected the growing independence of a young woman who felt the need to rise up and stand strong—knowing that it was up to her to walk beside her father in this world.

  In the midst of her present confusion, little did Cherity realize to what extent the Father of both her and her father heard every word. She had no inkling that this Father was already, in his own unique way, drawing them, preparing them to recognize his voice when he called more distinctly. For when that time came, he would speak, not in the language of cliché and religiosity, but in the language of the heart. And then they would hear.

  “God, if you are listening… why don’t you say anything?” she said one last time. “What kind of God are you, anyway?”

  But still Cherity Waters heard nothing.

  “Am I just talking to myself?” she said at length. “Maybe God doesn’t even exist at all.”

  She rose and left the room. One thing she wasn’t going to do was dwell on it. If there were no answers to such questions readily apparent, then she would take life as it came to her and be happy about it.

  Fifty-one

  “Mother,” said Veronica one afternoon in May when at last she was ready to spring her trap, “may we invite Seth over for dinner?”

  “Certainly, dear,” replied Lady Daphne. “Is he well enough?”

  “He is much better now. Except for the sling no one would know what had happened. I think he needs to start getting out and socializing again. How about the day after tomorrow, Mother?”

  “I think that will be fine, dear.”

  “Good, I will send Jarvis over to Greenwood with an invitation this afternoon. I will go up to my room and write it right now.”

  The handwritten invitation arrived at Greenwood only two hours after its ink had dried. Seth immediately went to show the note to his parents.

  “You know, Seth,” said his father, “there are rumors floating around….”

  “I know, Dad,” said Seth. “Believe me, they’re not true. I don’t know why everyone else is talking about us like they are.”

  “People love to gossip about young people in love,” said Carolyn; “I doubt Veronica does much to discourage the talk. I think she loves it.”

  “I know,” sighed Seth. “She and those silly friends of hers!”

  “Are the two of you in love, Seth?” asked his father.

  “I don’t know, Dad. I always just kind of figured…”

  Whatever Seth’s thought, he did not complete the vocalization of it.

  “Figured what?” asked his father.

  “You know, growing up together like we have, and then lately… it seemed natural, I guess, like one of those things that would just happen and… and I figured that someday, you know.”

  “That you and Veronica would marry?”

  “I guess.”

  “But it’s come on you more suddenly than you realized?”

  “Something like that, Dad.”

  “Did you and she ever have that talk?” asked Carolyn.

  “Uh… not really. But Veronica can be hard to talk to, though.”

  “It needs to be done.”

  “I know,” nodded Seth. “I had ridden over to talk to her and ask her what she thought about God and spiritual things, but then I got trounced by Elias instead.”

  He glanced down at the card in his hand. “I think I’ll accept this invitation, go to dinner, and then have a talk with Veronica and get some things settled between us.”

  When Seth arrived at Oakbriar two days later about four-thirty in the afternoon, the door was answered by Jarvis, dressed in more formal attire than usual. He showed Seth into the seldom-used drawing room where Seth waited for a minute or two before Lady Daphne appeared. She was dressed in formal evening wear.

  Seth glanced at his own casual slacks and jacket. At least his mother had convinced him to put a tie on at the last minute. When Veronica walked in another minute later, the sight nearly took Seth’s breath away. The long orange dress with large white bow at the hip on one side looked like it belonged at a fancy dress ball. Her hair was piled high on her head, every curl in place. She and Sally and Marta had spent three hours on it earlier in the afternoon.

  “Wow, Veronica!” said Seth. “You look great. I’ve never seen that dress before.”

  Veronica beamed. It was the most enthusiastic response she’d had from Seth in her life about anything she’d ever worn.

  “And here I am in a casual coat and with my arm in a sling!” he laughed.

  “It’s all right, Seth,” said Lady Daphne. “You didn’t know, and you look fine. We just felt like dressing up, didn’t we, Veronica, dear?”

  The drawing room door opened and Veronica’s father walked in. He didn’t exactly smile, but at least greeted Seth with a nod and offered his hand. Seth shook it, then winced involuntarily.

  “I’m sorry, boy,” said Beaumont. “I thought it was—”

  He glanced at the sling holding Seth’s left arm.

  “It’s all right, sir,” said Seth. “A couple of my right ribs got cracked, too. The doctor says there’s nothing more to be done for them but give them time. When my arm gets in just the right position, sometimes I feel pain.”

  “Yeah, ribs can be slow to heal,” nodded Beaumont.

  Jarvis walked in, carrying a tray bearing four tall glasses.

  “A glass of sherry, Seth?” said Lady Daphne, taking one of the glasses.

  “Uh… I don’t—”

  “Come on, boy,” said Beaumont. “You’re nineteen, they tell me, and you took on the toughest cuss for miles—if that doesn’t make you old enough for a sherry, I don’t know what does.”

  Beaumont took two of the glasses and handed one to Seth. Veronica and her mother took the others and Jarvis left the room.

  “A toast,” said Lady Daphne, raising her glass, “to the young people, Seth and Veronica… and their future.”

  They all lifted the glasses to their mouths and sipped lightly.

  This is going very well, thought Veronica. Her father was behaving himself like a perfect gentleman!

  Seth, on the other hand, was squirming under his collar. The swallow of sherry burned all the way down his throat. He was starting to sweat.

  “I haven’t had a chance to thank you, my boy,” said Beaumont, fumbling for words, “for jumping in and… uh, saving my daughter’s honor against Slade like you did. It took a lot of courage, and I’m grateful.” He had said a little more than he intended, but he let it stand.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Seth.

  Yes indeed… very, very well! said Veronica to herself, not realizing how much fortitude it had likewise taken for her father to swallow the huge portion of crow required to utter the words. But he prided himself on being a gentleman, and had determined to be gracious to Seth in front of his wife and daughter.

  “Well, then,” said Lady Daphne, “shall we go into the dining room?”

  Drinks still in hand, they entered the dining room, where a lavish table was appointed with the finest silver and linen. Two candles were burning, and two silent Negro attendants waited patiently to serve them. Seth noticed that only four places were set.

  “Where are Wyatt and Cameron?” he asked.

  “We sent them away,” replied Lady Daphne. “We thought this would be a good opportunity for the two of you and the two of us to enjoy a nice, quiet dinner together.”

  Once again Seth felt the heat rising around his neck. Veronica’s father and mother took their places at the head and foot of the table, then he and Veronica sat down opposite one another
on the two sides. She glanced over and smiled. It was a different expression than he had ever seen on her face before. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

  Then the memorable meal got underway.

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, with the last of the cherries and pudding settling comfortably and warmly inside, and the two attendants clearing away the last of the dishes, Lady Daphne, who had sturdily and bravely borne the heaviest load of the dinner conversation, her husband seemingly having settled from the amiable persona he had presented in the drawing room back into the quiet and sullen man they had all grown to know and love, scooted back her chair and rose from the table.

  “Come, Veronica, dear,” she said, “I think the men want to be alone.”

  Immediately Veronica rose, smiled at Seth, and left the room with her mother, who had executed her lines, as Veronica had outlined them prior to the meal, to perfection. Seth watched them go with something akin to horror. He too had noted the gradual shift in temperamental weather at the far end of the table and didn’t relish the thought of being left alone in the midst of whatever storm was brewing there.

  The door closed behind the two women. Seth nervously probed the inside of his collar with a finger, and waited. A long silence followed. Inside, Denton Beaumont was cursing his daughter for putting him in this position, and at the same time cursing Richmond Davidson for siring a blasted son at all. But, he told himself, protocol must be observed. He was, after all, a Virginian. He must conduct himself like a gentleman.

  Now he too slowly slid his chair back on the oak floor, and rose.

  “Why don’t you and I go into the parlor, Seth,” he said, “and have a drink together.”

  He took two steps, opened a door, and called through it. “Jarvis… a couple of brandies… in the parlor.”

  He closed the door and motioned for Seth to follow. Seth rose and followed him through another door, through the drawing room, and into the parlor, where Beaumont closed the door behind them.

  “Care for a cigar, son?” said Veronica’s father, opening the lid of a box on one of the tables and removing a seven inch Havana.