"Probably in another month or so."
"Then we shouldn't be sitting here, wasting time, Rebecca. There's so much to be done—the house, the books, the—"
Rebecca interrupted. "You act as if he's ridin' down the road this very minute. But he's not comin' yet, so you might as well relax. Why don't you go for a walk with Morrow while I step on into the kitchen and start our supper?"
"Go walk," Morrow parroted, getting up from the pallet where she had been playing and coming to tug at Allison's dress.
Allison smiled at the child, whose amethyst eyes were filled with excitement. "She's grown this past winter, hasn't she, Rebecca?"
The other woman nodded. "Like a weed. This Kentucky soil has really agreed with her."
"Well, she's brought enough of it onto the porch to plant an entire garden. That's certain."
Rebecca, already at the door, looked back. "A child's supposed to eat a peck of dirt before she's grown."
"Then Morrow is already ahead." Allison brushed the dirt from Morrow's hands and then, holding on to her, she began to lead the child down the few steps to the ground.
In that quietness of the day when the sun makes several false starts before finally going down, Allison walked slowly down the tree-lined path leading to the long road. At intervals, Morrow stopped to pick a wildflower or to gaze at a glistening pebble at her feet. The child was precocious—a little over a year in age and already she was walking and talking, albeit not in complete sentences or so steady on her feet as one a little older.
During the walk, an unhurried Allison, allowing the curious Morrow to take her time, began to think of the other brother, Captain Glenn Meadors, who shared ownership in the plantation. She knew almost nothing about him except for the few entries in the major's journal. Yet, reading between the lines, Allison could understand why the two had fought on opposite sides in the war, for it seemed they agreed on little enough in life.
After the cottage burned and Allison and the others had taken shelter in the mansion, the redbrick house with its massive white columns seemed cold and impersonal. No family pictures gazed at them from the parlor mantelpiece; no recent evidence of women showed up except in an old hand-embroidered firescreen with the initials SHM , to indicate the embroiderer, and the attic trunk full of old dresses and materials that a guilty Allison had used to clothe them all. Even Morrow was dressed in a blue calico print that she'd found in the trunk and used.
But she had bought the milk cow. And when Allison left Bluegrass Meadors, she would leave the animal there—surely a better-then-even exchange for the clothes.
She didn't know why she should think of Alma Brady at that moment. Perhaps it was the fine blue silk material, so similar to Alma's, in the bottom of the trunk that had reminded her. Allison hoped that Alma would eventually find her way back to Atlanta as she'd vowed.
Allison looked up to see Royal Freemont's carriage coming at a rapid pace down the road. She grabbed Morrow's hand and guided her to the grass growing by the side of the fence. Then she swung her onto the fence, and with her arms holding the child steady, Allison waited for the carriage to pass.
It was Big Caesar who was on the driver's perch. And he seemed in quite a hurry. He waved at Allison, but the carriage didn't slow down until it reached the back of the mansion close to the kitchen.
An amused Allison looked at Morrow. "Well, Morrow, it looks as if Rebecca's beau has brought us something special."
Morrow's jabber made no sense to anyone but Morrow, as Allison lifted her from the fence. The two continued their walk, turned around at the clump of trees, and began to head back toward the house.
During that time, Allison continued her musings, turning over in her mind the relationship between her servant and Big Caesar. Not that Rebecca's initial animosity for the man had subsided that much. But at least she was more civil toward him in her actions and in her speech. And she did accept Big Caesar's gifts in a more magnanimous way than she had that first time with the string of fish.
When Madrigal and Flood finished their chores in the barn, they, too, began to walk toward the house.
"What are you goin' to do, Flood, when you leave here? You think you can get your old job back at the mill?"
"I've been thinkin' about that for a long time, Madrigal. There's no guarantee the mill will ever be rebuilt. And if it is, they won't be hirin' women to run it. The men will be comin' back from the war. That means there won’t be any work for us. Either for you or me."
"Then, what's left?"
"You're still young and pretty. You'll find a man—maybe that nice Angus Smithwick if he's still alive. But me, I'm too old and ugly."
"You're not that old, Flood."
Madrigal's attempt to make Flood feel better brought a hardy laugh. "But I am ugly, and there's no denyin' that."
"It's a shame you're not a real man, Flood. Lots of men are ugly and they get by with it. They have more freedom, too. It just doesn't seem fair."
"I've thought about that, too, Madrigal. And I wondered what it would be like if I kept on pretendin' to be a man."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, we got out of that terrible prison by Major Meadors's mistakin' me for one. And nobody's found out any different since we've been here.
"I was thinkin' that if I didn't go back home but went someplace where nobody knows me, I could get a piece of land to homestead or stake a claim at some gold mine out West."
"Can I go with you, Flood? To the gold mines?"
"No, Madrigal. You'd get into too much trouble. Better for you to go back to Roswell. Besides, I'm not that sure that's what I'm goin' to do. Depends on how much money we get for lookin' after this place."
The two joined Rebecca and Allison in the kitchen, where the bounty that Big Caesar had brought from Royal Freemont was being put away.
"What did Mr. Freemont send this time, Allison?" Madrigal asked.
Before she could reply, Madrigal had moved over to a box containing newly hatched chicks. Quickly, she picked up one and held it to her breast.
Seeing it, Morrow squealed and headed toward Madrigal with her hands out.
"No, brat. You can't hold it. You'd squeeze it to death."
Morrow began to cry and went running back to Allison, who picked her up to comfort her. But Allison frowned at the red-haired girl who had spoken so harshly. "Madrigal, please. I'd rather you call her by her name."
Then Allison brought Morrow closer to the table so that she could look down at the noisy, fuzzy chicks in the box. The child stopped crying as Allison talked gently to her and allowed her to watch the chicks.
That night, at dinner, Allison began to discuss their chores for the next day. Madrigal was assigned to help Rebecca set out the small tomato plants and potato slips that Caesar had brought at the same time he'd brought the chickens.
"Why do I have to be the one workin' in the garden?" Madrigal complained.
"Because you said you hated to cook or do housework," Flood answered.
"Well, isn't there somethin' else that needs doin'?"
Someone would need to inspect the tender tobacco plants to make sure the hornworms or flea beetles had not attacked them. But Madrigal had done such a poor job of it the last time, Allison was hesitant.
"Would you like to cut out Flood's dress from the Indian muslin?"
"That would be a complete waste of time. She looks better in men's trousers."
"That might be true, Madrigal," Flood agreed, "but even so, I don't think I'd like to wear a dress that you cut out." She quickly looked at Allison. "If it's all the same to you, Allison, I'd rather you did it, if you're so determined that I need one."
"Maybe Miss Madrigal would rather sit on a fine pillow all day even if she can't sew a fine seam." Rebecca sounded sarcastic.
"Yes, that would suit me just fine. I've done more than enough work around here to last me a lifetime."
"Then maybe you'd keep those eggs warm while you're doin' it. Even a settin' hen
is accomplishing something while she's settin'."
Madrigal glared at Rebecca and then flounced from the table.
Seeing Allison so upset, Rebecca apologized. "I'm sorry, Miss Allison. I shouldn't have said that, I know. But it makes me boilin' mad to see how much work everybody else does around here, compared to that girl."
"She hasn't been the same since that night she lost the baby," Allison said, attempting to excuse Madrigal's errant behavior, which had plagued them all.
"I like Madrigal. You all know that," Flood answered. "But she was like this lots of times when she was workin' at the mill. So don't try to find any excuses for her."
"We're all on edge," Allison said, "waiting for Major Meadors to return home."
Flood nodded and rose from the table while Rebecca began to clear away the dinnerware. Allison sat for a while longer and looked into the candlelight. In her hands she held the list of chores to be done the next day, but her mind was many miles away.
Chapter 29
Each afternoon, Allison looked down the long road for some sign of Major Meadors. And each morning, she arose with the determination to work a little harder. As if she were a child with a severe taskmaster threatening to look over her shoulder, she went over the ledger that contained the small transactions, the barterings that she had done to keep the plantation in working order. But the burned cottage and tobacco barns continued to haunt her, and she worried that the man would blame them all for not saving the structures from the Paw-Paw Militia.
Several weeks went by, with no one appearing except Big Caesar or Royal Freemont, himself. Then late one afternoon, Madrigal rushed into the parlor where Allison had just finished polishing the fine old mahogany secretary.
"He's comin' down the road, Allison. The major's finally made it home."
"Quick, Madrigal, go into the kitchen and tell Rebecca to fix some refreshments. After such a long trip, I know the major will be hungry and thirsty."
This time Madrigal didn't balk at Allison's orders. She immediately raced into the kitchen, and Allison listened to the change in Madrigal's voice that was echoing through the house. She sounded like the old Madrigal from the days in the mill—sassy and bright, with a lilt to her voice—a far cry from the lethargic Madrigal of the previous months.
Allison rushed to the mirror and smoothed her hair. It was now long and pinned-up, rather than the riotous mass of curls that Royal Freemont had commented on that day she'd purchased the milk cow. She removed a pin and repositioned it, and then taking a deep breath, she walked slowly to the front porch and waited, unsmiling, beside one of the Doric columns.
He rode down the fenced lane, his horse looking winded and spent from the long trip. The man was in uniform—with the gold braid upon his coat sleeves tarnished by the wind and rain.
Allison frowned. The Roswell gray of the uniform could not be disguised despite the dust. She had seen it too many times—on her husband, Captain Coin Forsyth, and in the mill, itself, where she had worked on the looms to weave the fine wool into cloth.
The man galloped to the porch, slid from the saddle and, seeing Allison standing by the column, he swept his hat from his head. "Good afternoon, ma'am."
"Major Meadors?"
The man laughed as he tied his horse to the hitching post and then leaped onto the porch. "Captain Meadors, ma'am. Of the defeated Confederate Army of Tennessee. My compliments to you."
"You're not Major Rad Meadors?"
"No. I'm his brother, Glenn."
"But…"
Seeing the puzzled expression on her face, he said, "Oh, make no mistake. I was the one who got you out of the prison in Louisville." He laughed. "It was safer, using my brother's name. Otherwise, I might have wound up in prison myself if they'd caught me in Union territory."
The full import of his words struck her hard. He was not the severe taskmaster of the journals, but one of their own, fighting for the same cause and rescuing them like a gentleman knight. With that revelation came a vast relief; yet it was tempered with the knowledge that his older brother would also be coming home any day. But if they were lucky, the captain would pay them their wages and they could all be on their way before the major arrived.
Madrigal appeared at the door, and Glenn's attention was diverted. The red-haired girl smiled, looked straight at Glenn Meadors, and said, "I have some refreshments for you, Major—in the dinin' room."
He did not correct her as to his rank. Glenn used his hat to brush the dust from his uniform. Then he moved toward the heavy oak door that Madrigal held open for him.
Allison didn't follow the man inside. She remained on the porch , her mind reeling with the knowledge that the man who had written the journals, which she had studied so assiduously, was not the man she had pictured, but his older brother.
No wonder she had been confused at first, trying to reconcile the charming officer who had brought them to Bluegrass Meadors with the no-nonsense, iron-hard words of the journals.
She looked out at the fields where the tender young tobacco plants were struggling toward the sun. Glenn Meadors had not noticed them. And he'd said nothing about the missing barns and the cottage ruins, still so visible despite the attempted cleanup.
But Major Rad Meadors would have noticed immediately. Allison knew that in her heart. Brushing her hand across her face as if to clear her mind from its jumbled thoughts, she began to walk inside the house. A shared laughter—Madrigal's lilting giggle and Captain Meadors's amused laugh—greeted her as she stepped inside the door.
She walked past the dining room where Glenn Meadors sat sprawled in a chair, with Madrigal leaning over to pour him a stronger drink from the decanter.
"Won't you join me, ma'am?" the captain called out to Allison.
"No, thank you, Captain. I must see to my chores."
Not stopping, she continued into the kitchen and sat down at the round oak table, rough-hewn by some local carpenter, more than likely, with the backs of the oak chairs carved into stag horns—a masculine ambiance at odds with the blue chintz curtains hanging over the windows.
Allison looked at the silently questioning woman standing beside the cupboard. "It's all a mixup, Rebecca. The man in the dining room is not Major Meadors, after all, but his brother."
"I caught a glimpse of him, Miss Allison, past the kitchen door. He sure looks like the major."
"Of course he does, Rebecca. He's the same man who brought us here. But he's one of our own, a Rebel, who took an awful chance to rescue us from that terrible prison."
"Then why do you look so worried? I'd think you would be happier to see the man who fought on our side."
"I am happy. But I'm worried, too, Rebecca, because I know the real Major Meadors is probably not far behind."
"It's the journals, isn't it?" Rebecca demanded. "You've been followin' that Yankee's advice all this time and wonderin' what he was goin' to say when he found out last year's tobacco crop was lost."
"That's part of it. But at least the spring tobacco is already planted and doing well. I'd feel a lot better, though, if the captain paid us for our hard work and we could leave before his brother comes home." She stood. "I'd better go to the barn and alert Flood. I'm sure he'll want to talk with her about these past months."
Allison left Rebecca sifting the ingredients for the night's bread. Instead of retracing her steps through the long hall of the house, Allison slipped out the back door.
As she walked along the graveled path that separated the brick-bordered beds of the herb garden, Allison noticed how quickly the plants had grown—shaped into a lover's knot design of gray-green interspersed with darker green. She made note of the thriving mint, thick of leaf and aromatic to the nose.
The pear tree at the edge of the walk was loaded down with white blossoms, a sure indication of a good crop ahead. And the grape arbor to the right held strong, sinuously twisted vines, with the new spring growth in spiraling tendrils that clung to the arbor and spilled over the sides.
&nb
sp; The weathered wood of the arbor mirrored the weathered siding of the barn, with its rusted tin roof a replica of the one that had covered the kitchen roof of the cottage.
Inside the barn, Flood, unaware of the homecoming, took a pitchfork full of hay and threw it into the wooden trough for the animals. She didn't mind the work when the animals weren't around. As hard as she'd tried, she hadn't made friends with any of them except one of the foals. And that one—the colt with the star on his forehead—had no sense. Bigger than the others and more curious, too, he was always getting into trouble, jumping the fence and then standing back and waiting for Flood to come and lure him into the stall at night with a carrot from her pocket.
"Just look at him, standin' so tall," Flood had said to Allison one late afternoon several months previously. "Just like he's the king, waitin' to be served."
"He's a beautiful animal, Flood," Allison had said. And from that day on they'd called him Standing Tall.
As Allison reached the barn, she noticed the animal had jumped the fence again. Inside, the smell of hay caused Allison to sneeze, the noise alerting Flood that someone had come into the darkened barn.
"Who's there?"
"It's me—Allison," she called out. "Standing Tall has just jumped the fence. You'd better get him into the stall, Flood, before he races down the drive."
Flood put down her pitchfork and walked over to the wooden bin where a bunch of dried winter carrots lay. She broke one off and headed out of the barn. Passing Allison, Flood said, "One of these days, Allison, that colt is goin' to sprout wings, he's so fast, and nobody will be able to catch up with him."
Ever since the colt had started jumping the fence, Allison had lived with that nightmare. She knew the colt was valuable—it didn't take much of an eye for horseflesh to know it—but he was wayward, too. And sometimes as she watched him prance and caper in the meadow, she felt sorry that her brother Jonathan wasn't there to begin training him.
Looking at Flood, dressed in the old jodhpurs and shirt, Allison realized that she walked like a man. But now, perhaps it wasn't necessary for Flood to maintain the deception. Yet, if Captain Meadors wasn't any more observant than the day he had hired her, it probably would be just as well not to call his attention to that fact.
The Roswell Women Page 21