A Dream of Daring

by Gen LaGreca

  Tom knew that a carpenter who was a slave of the Barnwell family had been the principal builder of the home. Riding to the entrance, in a momentary reprieve from his problems, the inventor marveled at the splendor achieved by the talented craftsman.

  On that February day, the rosebushes were bare. Would there be another spring, Tom wondered, after he said what he had come there to say? A servant took his horse and another escorted him into the foyer, and the dreaded moment had come. Waiting to be received, he hoped Rachel and her mother were made of as hardy a stock as the roses.

  “Good Lord! Whatever is wrong, Tom?”

  When Rachel entered the foyer, she gasped at the sight of Tom’s unshaven face with its puffy, sleepless eyes, bruises from the fight with Cooper, and mud-stained clothing from the trip through the storm. She covered her mouth with her hands in horror.

  “You’d better get your mother,” he whispered.

  She gazed at him, bewildered, then vanished to call Charlotte. In a moment, Tom stood before two women who had the same face and who stared at him with the same astonished eyes, their mouths agape.

  Placing an arm around each woman’s shoulders, Tom led them into the parlor, their skirts rustling against his weary legs.

  “You’d better sit down.”

  The women sat on the sofa, anxiously leaning forward and looking up at him. He stood by the fireplace facing them. As the story of the past night spewed out, the women were appalled. He paused only for their gasps. When he finished, he was spent, with his arms on the mantel and his head buried in his hands.

  When he looked up, his face was filled with pain. The women were speechless. They seemed to be stunned beyond tears, their horror producing a dry-eyed, numbing shock.

  “My God!” whispered Charlotte. “Wiley’s . . . gone?”

  “Pa’s gone? He’s . . . gone?” a dazed Rachel asked Tom, who nodded grimly.

  The women looked incredulous as Tom watched helplessly.

  “How horrible!”

  “I can’t believe it!”

  “This is terrible!”

  Charlotte turned her white-marble face to her daughter. “What’ll we do, child?”

  In turn, Rachel looked at Tom, her face searching for an answer.

  “Dear God! We could be ruined!” Charlotte continued. “Oh, what are we to do?!” She covered her face in despair. “We could lose our crop!” An even greater fear pulled her voice lower. “And we could lose control of . . . our people!”

  Tom crouched down by Charlotte. He placed his hands on her shoulders to console her. “Mrs. Barnwell, I promise, I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll supervise the crop. You won’t be ruined. I’ll make sure of that!”

  “And the Crossroads,” said Rachel. “That’s ours too now, isn’t it? I suppose after what you told us, that utterly despicable Ted Cooper can’t buy it now!”

  “I’ll help you find another buyer,” said Tom.

  “Father said the Crossroads had a bad year.”

  “The overseer blamed it on poor Polly. According to him, it was her fault he couldn’t control the field hands! Imagine the impertinence!” said Charlotte. “I have my doubts about him. But what can I do? I never go to the Crossroads. The air there makes me ill.” She threw up her hands in despair.

  “I can handle Markham until you get a buyer. I’ll visit there regularly. I’ll go over the books and watch what he’s doing,” said Tom.

  “Then we can put you in charge of the Crossroads?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Barnwell.”

  He thought of how odd it was—how shocking, really—for them to mention such operational details at a time like that, but he was relieved to find something he could do to help.

  “And your fee, Tom?”

  “There’s no fee. Absolutely not, of course not.”

  “Wiley said the Crossroads needs a loan—”

  “I’ll loan you the money you need, Mrs. Barnwell.”

  “Mama, do you feel better now?”

  “Well, dear, I feel completely overwhelmed! This is horrible, just horrible!” Charlotte wiped her forehead with a handkerchief. She reached for her fan on a nearby table and cooled herself nervously.

  “Whatever are we going to do about the funeral?” She lamented. “The town will expect something lavish for the senator. We’ll have to have a headstone specially carved for him. And the reception! How ever will we handle that now, with planting coming on and no extra cash to spare? My God, we’re in a fix!”

  “There’ll be planters and legislators from all over the state wanting to pay their respects,” said Rachel. “The governor will want to come. We’ll need music, flowers—”

  “A special carriage and a custom-fit coffin!” added Charlotte.

  Tom rose to his feet. “Under the circumstances, I must insist on paying for all the funeral expenses. I won’t have any argument about it.”

  There was no argument.

  “Why, that’s right good of you,” said Rachel.

  “Yes, Tom. Thank you,” added Charlotte.

  Tom was astonished by the women’s steely behavior. Theirs was said to be the weaker sex, but was it? The women before him certainly seemed to be the more pragmatic sex. While he was wracked with grief, they were able to plan soberly. He took it as a good sign that they could push aside their sorrow to deal with practical matters. Right now, he figured, they must be in too much shock to feel the full impact of their loss, and dealing with looming events gave them a sense of control over the sudden and violent change in their lives.

  “With you helping us with the plantations,” said Charlotte, “I shouldn’t burden you with anything more, but . . .” She paused for Tom’s reaction.

  “Mrs. Barnwell, I assure you, it’s not a burden. The senator . . . stood . . . by me. He . . . defended my work, my dream . . . with . . . his life. It’s my duty to help you now, my solemn duty.”

  “Well then, there’s just one more thing we need, and I don’t know how we’ll pay for it. With Wiley just purchasing a new gin, and with the doctor bills we paid last month for delivering our weaver Callie’s baby and for our cook Yancy’s illness—”

  “And there’s the new horses Papa bought,” added Rachel.

  “I don’t know where to turn!” said Charlotte.

  “Turn to me, Mrs. Barnwell. Turn to me!”

  “What I mean is, we’ll be needing more mourning clothes.” Charlotte glanced at her daughter. “Rachel, dear, look at you.”

  Rachel had already relaxed her mourning attire from her aunt’s funeral the previous day. She still wore black, but her dress now had a bodice with transparent lace above her breasts, making her look more provocative than funereal.

  “You’ll need mourning clothes to wear for an extended time, child. What’ll folks say if you’re not in black up to your chin for months to come?”

  “Mama, months in those horrible clothes? Really!”

  This wasn’t the first time Tom had heard Charlotte prodding Rachel about her attire. The mother dressed with a modesty and refinement that exceeded the already high expectations for a senator’s wife. Though her red hair shouted of a still-youthful beauty, her braids and clips restrained the message to a whisper. Though her figure was still fetchingly trim, her wardrobe’s muted colors and the high necklines she wore with a brooch at her throat choked off her feminine appeal.

  Rachel, however, was a daring contrast. Despite her mother’s pleas for modesty, the young Miss Barnwell loved bright colors and alluring dresses. Her necklines were provocatively low. Tom surveyed the beauty of her silky skin, the tumbling riot of red hair, and the small birthmark below her shoulder visible under the lace of her dress. His eyes paused on the reddish brown mark that was shaped like a heart and resting above her real heart like a beguiling little charm casting a spell on him.

  Rachel sighed in resignation. “I suppose Papa would want me to be . . . proper.”

  “I’m glad you see things sensibly,” said Charlotte.

 
“But I haven’t any suitable clothes!”

  Rachel’s wardrobe was legendary. Her father had dedicated the plantation’s best seamstress to making her dresses, and he had given her a room in the mansion to house her collection of gowns, day dresses, riding habits, carriage suits, tea attire, capes, cloaks, shawls, and robes, along with shoes, boots, hats, jewelry, and accompaniments of every kind. Tom had wondered if Rachel expected the man she married to match her father’s indulgences.

  But now, the young suitor’s remorse wouldn’t allow him to deny Rachel anything. If his invention had led to the loss of her father, then he felt responsible—unwittingly but undeniably—for the tragedy so cruelly thrust upon her.

  “Rachel, I want you to get the clothes you need. You too, Mrs. Barnwell. I’ll consider that to be part of the funeral expenses that I’m handling.”

  How small these gestures were, he thought, in view of their great loss. He’d use savings, which, after all, were replaceable. It was the beloved head of their family that was irreplaceable.

  “We’re mighty grateful for your help,” said Charlotte.

  Rachel nodded in agreement.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Charlotte said, rising from her seat and walking toward the door, “I’ll need to tell the slaves.” She paused and look worried. “Whatever shall I say? They mustn’t think that the strong hand directing them has weakened! They . . . three hundred of them . . . mustn’t think . . . ” Her eyes filled with the raw terror of someone facing physical danger. She looked up to the heavens. “Oh, Wiley, what’ll I do without you?”

  “Shall I accompany you, Mrs. Barnwell?”

  “Mama, we’ll both come with you.”

  Charlotte nodded. “That’ll make it easier. I’ll come for you after I gather everyone.”

  Tom observed her through the window as she approached the giant bell that summoned the slaves. When she pulled on the rope, the low tone of the iron gong sounded like a death knell.

  He turned away from the window to find Rachel gazing at him like a wide-eyed child looking for support. He took hold of her arm, the whole of his sorrow visible on his face. He pulled her close to him. In what was the sole sweet moment in his bitter day, he embraced her, kissed her, stroked her hair, caressed her shoulders, moved a finger affectionately over the little birthmark. The fragrant scent and luscious feel of her carried him back to his first experience of these pleasures in Philadelphia, to their lusty days together at a time of abandon for both of them.

  Tom had known Rachel when they were children. Their families, from the landed gentry of Greenbriar, had been neighbors and friends. He remembered Rachel as the child who sang to the town. Her natural talent, honed with voice lessons, made her the star of local gatherings, from church functions to plantation parties to the town’s social events. Rachel eagerly performed at every occasion, and Tom had fond memories of watching the perky little girl, five years his junior, with the angel’s voice.

  Then at the age of fourteen, Tom left home to travel north for school. His father recognized a keen intelligence in the boy who took apart and reassembled every clock in the house just to see how it worked, who repaired their cotton gin and sawmill better than any mechanic, and who devoured every known book and periodical about machines. When Tom wanted to attend a science and engineering academy in Philadelphia, Colonel Edmunton could not deny his gifted son.

  In the great northern city, an exciting world of science, formal education, urban life, and industry enthralled Tom. While in school, he worked part time for a machine-manufacturing company, and he remained there after graduation. He learned to design, assemble, and repair every kind of motor-powered device of the time.

  One day he encountered an entirely new kind of motor that captivated him: an experimental engine powered by petroleum. The particular one he saw was inadequate. But it provided the hint that one day, with radical modifications and improvements, it could succeed. That day marked the beginning of Tom’s project to develop such an engine, and with it a motorized vehicle for personal use in transportation and farming. Soon his project became a passion.

  By the time he turned twenty-three, the inventor had all but forgotten his rural life and friends in Greenbriar. That was when his father wrote to tell him that their neighbor, Rachel Barnwell, now a young lady of eighteen, was coming to Philadelphia to attend a finishing school. Her parents had agreed to send their daughter for formal instruction on the social graces and cultural subjects in preparation for her future role as a plantation mistress. When Rachel arrived, Tom served as her escort, showing her the town and helping her get settled. To his surprise, the freckled child with the bouncy curls had blossomed into a beautiful young woman. What had begun as a childhood friendship became a romance.

  The breathless year following Rachel’s arrival was the happiest of his life. He began his days before dawn, laboring on his new engine and then working at his regular job. His evenings ended in the intoxicating world of Rachel and her newfound passion—the theater. Almost immediately, the red-haired beauty discovered the Philadelphia theater, and it discovered her.

  Rachel auditioned and soon received her first roles. She endured tedious rehearsals, abrasive directors, and bit parts—all the indignities of the struggling artist. But she cheerfully prevailed, embellishing her talent with acting instruction, treasuring every role, proudly performing as if her character were the most important person in the world.

  She told Tom that when she was acting, she felt more excitement than she ever had. “When I sang to the neighbors as a child, I never dreamed I could perform for an actual audience and feel such a thrill. I never dreamed I could be onstage!” She spoke as if she had discovered a cathedral and was blessed to stand on its sacred ground.

  Rachel’s vitality onstage was palpable to Tom. She was more exciting than any woman he had ever known. Her trials reminded him of his own passionate struggle—of the failed attempts at creating his new motor, the skepticism of critics, the scarcity of encouragement, the continuous push forward fueled only by his belief in himself and stubborn conviction that his idea would work. In Rachel he thought he saw a mirror of his own essence.

  After her initial success at keeping her theater life hidden from school authorities, they discovered her secret and wrote to her parents of her shocking behavior. She tried to explain her newfound passion to them, but the innocence and joy with which she embraced the theater were not understood by her family. They considered theaters uncouth and actresses little more than prostitutes. By the code of conduct of Greenbriar, theaters were no place for the daughter of a senator and major planter.

  Nevertheless, Rachel seemed undeterred, and Tom admired her pluck. Women were expected to be delicate, demure, and dependent first on a father, then on a husband, for their support. But in her pursuit of the theater, Rachel was the opposite—bold, daring, and strong-willed. She left school to throw herself into acting, and Tom saw her as a free spirit, breaking the mold that society had cast for her. He felt that she was buoyed by the same restlessness of the new age that lifted him, the sultry breeze that swept them off together toward love and adventure.

  The Southern beauty cast off the conventional bonds of her upbringing not only for the lure of the theater but also for the passion of his arms. He’d watch her perform, and then they’d meet later for heady nights of laughter and love. To Tom, Rachel was a lily in full bloom whose fragrance permeated his existence.

  But then something happened to blow the petals away. Charlotte Barnwell contracted a sudden illness when she learned that Rachel had decided to stay in Philadelphia to work in the theater. Rachel made what was supposed to be a brief trip home to be at her mother’s side. But the recovery was long and the illness was vague, and Rachel never did return to Philadelphia. Tom was crushed.

  His own busy life healed him. Yet he was left with a question that seemed unanswerable: Why? Why would Rachel abandon a life she loved, a city she loved . . . and him?

  She wrote to
him about how happy she had become at home and beseeched him to return too. Her parents had greeted her homecoming with extravagant gifts. They designated the services of one of the plantation’s seamstresses as exclusively for her, and they set aside a room at Ruby Manor just to house her expanding wardrobe. They also provided trips to New Orleans for jewelry, perfumes, and imported fabrics, as well as an apparently limitless allowance to keep her happy. Rachel described in glowing terms the parties her parents had thrown for her, lavishing her with attention fit for a princess. She seemed to fall into the gaiety of being a Southern belle. She wrote of how terribly she missed him, but she wanted him to give up the opportunities that Philadelphia offered in order to live in Greenbriar with her. After a while, he stopped answering her letters.

  Less than a year after Rachel had gone back to Greenbriar, Tom unexpectedly returned home also. The reason wasn’t Rachel’s entreaties but the death of his father and the need for him to take control of the family plantation and bank.

  He found a subdued Rachel back in Greenbriar. In Philadelphia, she had sung exhilarating songs that stirred him. In Greenbriar, her taste had switched to quieter ballads that lacked the fire of her previous preferences. Her headlong lust for him had taken a cautionary step back also, so that she could discern his intentions before bestowing too many of her favors. He found her belated propriety to be a form of pressure on him to commit to something about which he now had growing misgivings.

  She seemed to want more of his attention at a time when she was provoking more of his doubts. In Philadelphia, she never had reason to question his love for her, but now she had. In Philadelphia, she never viewed his invention as competing with her for his time, but now she did. In Philadelphia, he never doubted that she was the kind of woman who excited him, but now. . . . Something had happened to the prized flower that blossomed that year in Philadelphia. Was Rachel’s spirit like the roses of Ruby Manor, with deep roots and perennial blooms, or was it more like the passing flowers that show their brilliance in one glorious summer, then perish in the autumn wind?

  As he stood with Rachel in the parlor of Ruby Manor, he noted the one vestige of her former spunk: the alluring dresses that displayed her beautiful figure and tortured him with desire. He stroked such a dress now, feeling the pleasing curves of the body beneath it. He held her close, and for one thrilling moment, he felt as if they were back in Philadelphia. The tragic events of the past day seemed to intensify his desire to recapture their former joy.