by Natalie Dean
“Why can’t you be happy as we are?” Maggie went on. “Why must you risk everything for $500?”
“Because if I am killed, Maggie, then there’s something for you and Molly. Something for a better life. If I stay a servant in Virginia, there’s never going to be anything else for us. I’m proud of what you do, and I know that Mr. Turner values the work you do. But our Molly isn’t going to be a servant, Maggie, and if I have to die to make sure of that, then I’ll die knowing that I’ve done right by her and by you.”
As her parents argued, Molly listened. She was in her bedroom, a small room that was originally a closet, but Da had said that, as they hadn’t enough belongings to justify having a room to store them, she could have her own room. Now, as she listened at the door, her parents’ voices and her mother’s sobs were plain to hear. Was Da going off to the war? She knew there was a war somewhere; Mr. Turner read the newspaper and then shut himself up in his study for most of the day.
Mr. Will and Mr. James had gone off to the war, but they hadn’t gone to the same place. Da had tried to explain it to her. Virginia didn’t want to be part of the United States anymore, and Mr. Will agreed it shouldn’t. That was why he had worn a gray uniform when Da brought out his horse, Hannibal, to him. Mr. James wanted Virginia to stay in America; he had already left, but he rode away in a blue uniform.
“It’s all a great deal of nonsense,” Maggie O’Hara retorted. “They’re fighting over slavery, and you know it.”
“But I’m not fighting for slavery. I’m going North; I’m going to meet Mr. James in Washington D.C. He said I could take one of the horses; Mr. Turner didn’t object.”
Molly had heard enough. She raced out of the closet bedroom and flung herself at her father. “Da! I don’t want you to go away!”
“There, do you see what you’re doing? Your daughter would rather have her father here with her. What does she want with $500 and no father?” Maggie’s accent was as strong as the day she’d gotten off the ship, unadulterated by the drawling tones of the Virginians around her. Molly’s English was a mixture of the accent of her parents and the leisurely speech pattern of Reddington. Whenever she answered a question, Mr. James would pull at her braids and tell her she was speaking Southrish again. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but Mr. James always seemed to have a grin in his eyes when he spoke, the kind of grin that made her smile in return, even if she wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Mr. Will smiled often, too, but even though he and Mr. James were twin brothers, their smiles were as different as they were.
Liam O’Hara bent down so that he and his daughter were on the same level. “Molly, girl, you know that I love you more than a leprechaun loves his pot of gold, don’t you?”
Molly nodded.
“But sometimes, a father has to do what he thinks is right, even if he won’t be there to see it. I’m looking out for you, Molly girl. You remember that, even if you don’t see me or hear me. I’m always with you.”
November 1862
Mr. James didn’t have that grin in his eyes; that was the first thing she noticed. But he forced a smile when she came into the room.
“You’ve lost your braids,” he said. It was a feeble joke, but nobody felt much like joking. Mr. James had brought Liam O’Hara’s body back to Reddington for burial.
“Mother says it’s time,” she answered. “I’m twelve now.”
He nodded, but she sensed that he was not thinking about her braids being gone. He had arrived yesterday morning after riding through the night. Mother knew, of course, she’d gotten the telegram and she’d fainted when she read it. But Mr. James riding in a wagon with Da’s body in a coffin was proof that the telegram wasn’t a mistake. Mother had sobbed through the funeral. There wasn’t a priest in Reddington, but Mr. Turner had done his best to give a funeral reading that would comfort her. After the service, Mr. Turner had served a luncheon for the other servants on the plantation, but Mother had been too distraught to stay. She’d gone back to the cabin, leaving Molly in her place. She was eleven-years-old.
When morning came, she had dressed as usual. She helped in the kitchen at the main house. Usually, Mother was already up and dressed, chiding Molly for dawdling. But Mother was still in her bed. She wasn’t crying, but when Molly hesitantly asked her if she was going to get up, she just shook her head. She shook her head again when Molly asked her if she needed anything. Uncertain of what to do, Molly left the cabin.
Molly went to the kitchens first. They were located outside the main house. Mae Rollings, the cook, was already at her work, rolling out dough for the luncheon meal.
“Land sakes, child, I didn’t expect to see you today. Where’s your Ma?”
“She won’t be able to work today,” Molly answered.
“No, well, I expect not,” Mrs. Rollings sighed. “It’s a bad business, this war. You can see it in Mr. Turner’s eyes. It’s like he can never hear good news; what’s good for one son might be bad for the other.”
“Is Mr. James still here?”
Mrs. Rollings nodded. “He got a pass to bring back your father. He’ll be here for a couple more days. It’s a shame Mr. Will couldn’t get a pass. I wonder if the brothers will ever see each other again?” she sighed again. “Well, it’s best to be busy when the heart is heavy. Since you’re here, you might as well get started peeling those potatoes.”
The chore was so ordinary that it seemed impossible to understand how Da could be gone and here she was, peeling potatoes as if it were any other day. But Da had not just gone to war, but gone to heaven. How could everything be exactly the same as it had been before, with Da gone?
After lunch had been served, she was helping with the dishes when Betsy, one of the maids, came down to tell her that Mr. Turner and Mr. James wanted to see her in Mr. Turner’s study.
“Me?”
“That’s what he said. Get along now; I’ll finish these up. Tidy your apron, girl and wipe your face; you’ve a smudge on your cheek.”
Molly didn’t see what difference it made whether her face was clean or not. She was just a servant girl in the household, and no one was ever going to take notice of her. But she did as Betsy ordered and didn’t object when Betsy gave her hair a brisk combing, using her fingers to work out the tousled locks.
“Lord have mercy, girl, but you do have the tangliest hair. Maybe it’s on account of being red.”
“Mother’s hair is red, and she never has tangles,” Molly said.
Betsy didn’t answer. “Go on now; they’re waiting for you.”
Molly wasn’t used to being in the main part of the house. Her work was in the kitchens and downstairs; the maids tended to the upstairs cleaning. She made her way to Mr. Turner’s study, expecting with every step to be told to return downstairs. But no one saw her; the house was still. It hadn’t been like that when the twins were at home, before they went off to war. Mr. James seemed to travel in laughter and his brother and father, who were serious and solemn on their own, brightened up in his presence. He had noticed everyone, he greeted all the servants by name and had a joke for everyone, even a skinny little redheaded servant girl who thought he was a prince.
Molly knocked on the study door.
“Come in,” Mr. Turner’s voice called.
She opened the door and entered with trepidation. Mr. Turner and Mr. James were sitting on chairs by the fireplace; it was autumn, and the fire took the chill out of the room.
“Sit down, Molly,” Mr. Turner told her.
She obeyed him, although it didn’t seem proper to be sitting with them. She didn’t know what Mother would say to that; Mother was very firm about remembering her place.
“Molly,” Mr. James said, leaning forward, “I’m so sorry that we’ve lost your father. He was a good man.”
She nodded. Tears stung her eyes, but she knew that if she didn’t blink, they might not fall and the tears would cease.
“He talked about you at the end. I was with him.”
�
�How did he die?”
Mr. James looked to his father.
“Molly, you’re very young to be hearing things like this. It would be better if we told your mother and then she can tell you when you’re old enough.”
“I want to know. I’ll need to tell Mother.”
Father and son looked at each other. They seemed to understand something that Molly didn’t, even though she was the one who had spoken.
“It was a battle that we won, but it was a hard-fought battle,” Mr. James said. “Your father took a bullet to the arm that shattered the bone. He . . . was taken to the hospital tent. When I learned that he’d been wounded, I went to the tent. He spoke of you. He wants . . . he wanted you to better yourself.”
“You’ll always have a place here, Molly,” Mr. Turner spoke up. “You’re part of the household.”
“Yes,” Mr. James agreed. “But your father received a bounty for enlisting. He entrusted that money to me. I’m leaving it with my father. It’ll be kept in the bank for you, where it will accrue interest. That means that the bank will pay you for keeping your money there.”
Mr. James grinned. “So your money earns money just by sitting in the bank. There will be a little more than the $500 that he received. He was very specific. It’s for your future. Someday, he said, you’ll have need of it and when you do, Molly O’Hara, it’s there for you. Father is guardian of the money, but it’s yours.”
“Do you understand, Molly?”
Molly was dimly aware that this was a conversation that Mr. Turner and Mr. James should have been having with her mother. But they were having it with her. It didn’t make much sense.
“I’m trying to,” she answered.
Mr. James smiled. “It’s not easy to understand at your age.”
“None of this is easy to understand. I fear that nothing ever will be. Molly, you are very young to have so much responsibility, but it may take awhile before your mother is able to be as she was. She has had a great shock.”
“Mr. James, now that West Virginia is its own state and not part of Virginia, will Mr. Will still have to wear a gray uniform?”
Mr. Turner’s shoulders sagged. She saw his lower lip tremble and realized that her question had troubled him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Turner. I don’t understand.”
Mr. Turner smiled faintly. “As I said, child, I doubt that anything will be easy to understand for a long time. My son has chosen to wear gray, the uniform of the Confederacy. He no longer regards himself as a citizen of the United States, but he is still my son, and I hope that you will keep him in your prayers along with Mr. James.”
Molly wondered how Mr. Turner knew that she prayed nightly for Mr. James. She prayed in secret, and not even Mother knew.
“God will surely hear the prayers you send Him, Molly O’Hara,” Mr. James said. “With that red hair, God can’t help but see you. You’ll always be able to get God’s attention.”
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About Author - Natalie Dean
Born and raised in a small coastal town in the south I realized at a young age that I was more adventurous than my conservative friends and family. I loved to travel. My passion for travel opened up a whole new world and new cultures to me that I will always be grateful for.
I was raised to treasure family. I always knew that at some point in my life I would leave my storybook life behind and become someone's mother, someone's aunt and hopefully someone's grandmother. Little did I know that the birth of my son later in life would make me the happiest I’ve ever been. He will always be my biggest achievement. The strong desire to be a work-from-home mom is what lead me down this path of publishing books.
While I have always loved reading I never realized how much I would love writing until I started. I feel like each one of my books have been influenced by someone or something I’ve experienced in my life. To be able to share this gift has become a dream come true.
I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed creating them. I truly hope to develop an ongoing relationship with all of my readers that lasts into my last days :)
PS
Though my name is Eveline Hart and I initially started writing under that name, I decided to use the pen name Natalie Dean.
Why did I do that?
I wanted to do testing with my various styles of writing, to see what you readers like the most! Well, I guess I ended up going crazy with the books under the Natalie Dean pen name and now that I’ve developed such a following for Natalie Dean, I’m just going to stick with it : )
www.EVELINEHART.com