by S. B. Moores
“And if I fail the test and Henry wins?”
“Unlikely as it may seem to you now, you will continue to live. And when the time is right, you will love again. More strongly than ever.”
“Thank you, Father, but I will never know that second lover. I cannot fail whatever tests Abigail wants to set before me. I must not.”
Justin leaped from his seat and strode from the room. Anne Sterling watched him go as she came into the room and looked at Walter.
“What have you been telling Justin?” she said. “He’s got more energy in him now than I’ve seen in a fortnight.”
“I was telling him stories,” he said. “About when you and I were young.”
CHAPTER NINE
May 1834
Abigail sat on a comfortable stuffed settee, knitting a forest-green sweater spread in her lap. Her hands worked swiftly, even though she had only recently learned the skill. She’d avoided knitting when she was younger, considering it “woman’s work,” or at least nothing that would help her raise horses. But, since she had grown older, she’d come to realize its practical value. Ridgetop was far from a large town like Nashville, and even farther from any real city like Louisville or Saint Louis. It seemed impossible to find quality clothing nearby, and when Abigail did find it, it was always expensive. True, her parents could afford to buy her nice clothes, nicer than many of the families in the valley, but she had no desire to set herself apart from her friends and neighbors by what she wore.
“Abigail, dear,” her mother said from her seat at the rolltop desk. She lay down her quill pen and used both hands to tighten the already neat bundle of graying hair at the back of her head.
A familiar tone of parental concern in her mother’s voice caused Abigail to take notice. She was immediately cautious.
“Yes, Mother,” she said as innocently as she could. She didn’t look up from her knitting. Her mother closed the ledger she was working in and watched Abigail with a thoughtful expression.
“Abigail,” her mother said again. “It seems like only yesterday I was changing your diapers.” She sighed a bit too dramatically. “And now you’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman.”
“Yes, Mother,” she said. “Thank you for noticing.” She still did not put down her knitting, but she glanced up and smiled at her mother in a way she hoped didn’t look too patronizing.
“Abby dear,” her mother said, switching to the more familiar name, which she normally would forgo.
Abigail braced herself.
“You have a birthday coming up,” her mother said.
Now Abigail knew where her mother was going. It was a topic her mother raised more and more often lately. It was high time Abigail got married and started having grandchildren.
“Will you bake me a cake for my birthday this year?” Abigail stopped knitting briefly and looked up.
Henrietta folded her hands in her lap and smiled a patient, motherly smile. Perhaps she was glad she’d at least engaged her daughter in the conversation.
“Well,” she said haltingly. “I suppose I can, but you’re very much a grown woman now, so you shouldn’t expect too much.” Her smile still had that patient look about it.
“Yes,” Abigail said. “Since I’m all grown up, Father will probably throw me out of the house and out into the world to fend for myself. Won’t he?”
Henrietta chuckled and waved a hand dismissively at the comment.
“Oh, I won’t mind,” Abigail continued, “I can always move to Nashville and write poetry. I can take in laundry to support myself. It might be quite romantic, in a way.”
“Now Abigail, you mustn’t talk that way. Although I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to stop you. You’ve had a mind of your own since you were old enough to know where the cookie jar sat.”
“Thank you, Mother. I’ll consider that a compliment.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. You are such a headstrong young lady, and that won’t help you . . . well, when it comes time for you to find a nice young man and settle down.”
There it was. They had joined the familiar battle again, but Abigail decided not to confront her mother with the issue head-on.
“Oh, it shouldn’t be any problem at all,” she said in a distracted way, pretending to focus on some unseen stitch. “I always thought the nice young men were supposed to find me.” She lowered her knitting to her lap and looked out the window. “This is the way I see it.” She tried to sound as if she had given the problem quite a bit of thought. “One day I’ll be traveling to Nashville for a lyceum, or to attend a fund-raising assembly for widows and orphans sponsored by the governor. Or whatever. My carriage will break down on the road. The wheel will fall off or something, right in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, my manservant, struggle as he might, will not be able to put the wheel back on.
“What are we to do? Well, just at that moment, a fine, strong gentleman will ride out of the woods on a great black stallion. He might be a highway bandit. I don’t know, but when he spies me in my distress, he will be hopelessly smitten. He cannot help but offer assistance.”
Henrietta laughed a quick high laugh and then discretely covered her mouth.
“So you see,” Abigail continued. “This gentleman or bandit, again I don’t know which, will strip off his coat and singlehandedly lift my carriage—with me in it of course—right off the ground so that my manservant can put the wheel back on.”
Abigail sighed, looking a little wistful. “Surely you know the rest. It’s love at first sight. We’ll ride away together on his horse and live happily ever after.” She returned to her knitting, hoping she had blunted her mother’s enthusiasm for any more discussion on the subject of marriage.
“My,” her mother said. “That is a fanciful story. I’m sure I never taught you to think life was like that.”
“Who said anything about life, Mother. I’m talking about love.”
“Love is all well and good for stories and the like,” her mother said. “But love is not something that just happens to you, young lady. In the practical world, you’ve got to find a gentleman who has the right, well . . . circumstances, and then love will follow in time.”
Abigail knew that “circumstances” meant as much money and social position as possible.
“Like with you and father?” she asked.
“Exactly,” her mother said firmly. But her eyes fluttered and she glanced out the window.
Abigail had never been given a full accounting of how her parents met, or what their lives had been like when they were younger, before they were married. But she couldn’t imagine their lives had been anything more than what they were now, bereft of any drama.
“I was very lucky to meet a man as nice as your father,” her mother said.
Indeed you were, Abigail agreed silently.
“And I want you to have the same benefits in life that I’ve enjoyed,” her mother continued. “That’s why your father and I are planning a little coming-out party for you. Of course, we don’t need to call it a coming-out party. We can call it a birthday party.”
Abigail dropped her knitting and gaped at her mother.
“What? Oh, Mother, you wouldn’t.”
“No need to thank me, dear. We intend to invite young men and women from all of the best families. I know young people love to dance, so we’ll hire musicians. Margaret Anne will bake pies and it will be a wonderful gathering. Don’t you agree?”
Abigail fought the urge to shout all her objections at once. Instead, she inspected her handiwork, calmed her tense stomach, and sighed.
“It would be nice to see my friends, I suppose,” she allowed, “but you don’t need to go to such trouble just for me, just because it’s my birthday.”
“It’s no trouble at all, my dear.” Henrietta smiled sweetly. “Besides, being in the country, as we are, you don’t often have the opportunity to meet the right kind of . . . gentleman.”
Realizing her mother was serious about her plans, Ab
igail set her knitting aside.
“Mother, I have no interest in picking a husband like an apple from a market basket!”
“But Abigail dear, you should be pleased you are able to do so. You’re so fair and such a beautiful girl. Not every young lady is so lucky that they can choose the proper husband.”
“Thank you, Mother, for saying so.” Abigail rolled her eyes. She didn’t think of herself as any better looking than other young women in the valley.
“Look at it this way,” her mother said. “You certainly don’t want to leave such an important decision to chance, do you?”
“But Mother, surely you wouldn’t go about selecting a husband like you would a Thoroughbred horse. Examining his teeth, inspecting the curve of his back.”
“You would be surprised at the similarities,” Henrietta said. Her smile was wooden.
“Oh, Mother! I won’t hear of it. I could no more marry a man I did not love than I could marry a horse.”
“You are still young,” her mother chided. “But you will not be young forever. I simply want to give you the opportunity to meet as many eligible young men as you can, and I think sponsoring a social occasion for the better families of Ridgetop is an excellent way to do it.” She cocked an eyebrow at Abigail and crooked a finger to her chin.
“If you’re really not ready for marriage,” Henrietta said, “I suppose I shouldn’t force it on you.” She gave the appearance of losing interest in the conversation and started leafing through some papers on the desk. “Perhaps,” she said after a moment, “we should consider your education first. We could always place you in the Ladies of Chastity School for young women in Saint Louis. Their curriculum is good, and I understand they have proven methods of instilling proper Christian ethics in their young protégés.”
Abigail shrank back into her chair at the thought. Her mother’s shift in tactics had caught her off guard. What young woman from Ridgetop hadn’t dreamed of moving to a city like Saint Louis? But doing so under the stern and constant vigil of the celibate ladies of the church did not appeal to her. She was trapped, and discretion being the better part of valor, she decided a party might be the lesser of two evils.
“Oh, Mother,” she said, once again trying to sound slightly distracted, as if she too were losing interest in the topic. “Do you think Father should raise a gazebo on the east lawn? I think it would look marvelous there, next to the pond. For the party, of course.”
“Hmm, dear?” Henrietta mumbled. “Oh, that is a very good idea. I will ask him about it.” She tried to hide her smile. “But now I think I’ll put a bit of orange blossom in my tea and take a nap upstairs.”
Justin stood next to his father in the middle of a crowd of people outside the courthouse, waiting by the veranda to hear the invited speaker. It seemed like most of the county’s citizens had come out, and the afternoon weather had cooperated.
“I think you’ll appreciate Mr. Clay’s talk,” Walter said. “He’s a strong advocate for the western states, especially for agriculture.”
Justin nodded. He read the newspapers and had heard of the notable Kentucky politician. He was more interested in Henry Clay’s anti-slavery position than his support for agriculture. The Sterlings kept no slaves, but Justin never knew if that was because of his father’s politics, or simply because they couldn’t afford them. He believed it was the former.
“Does Mr. Clay still want to be the president?” Justin asked this as much to impress his father with his knowledge of the world as to needle him by suggesting that they should be skeptical of anything a politician said.
His father looked at him sideways with a raised eyebrow. “This country could do a lot worse than elect Henry Clay president.”
Justin nodded again, but he was more interested in looking for Abigail Whitfield in the crowd, and seeing who she might have come with. Women weren’t strangers to politicians’ talks, but some men in the county discouraged them from participating. After all, they couldn’t vote, and they had work to do in the home. Justin wasn’t sure how Henry Whitfield felt about such things, but he knew Abby would want to attend Clay’s talk. Such occasions were few and far between in Ridgetop.
The crowd burst into applause when Clay and a number of local officials came out of the courthouse and stood on the veranda. Clay raised his hands, and the murmuring crowd became quiet. He began his talk with something he called the “American System,” which, he assured everyone, would maintain strong support for America’s agricultural products overseas, products the citizens of Ridgetop produced. Justin listened with one ear. He scanned the crowd, seeing many familiar faces, but not the one face he longed to set eyes on. After fifteen minutes he gave up, but by then Mr. Clay had finished the essence of his talk and was entertaining questions. A familiar voice sounded from the other side of the crowd.
“Wouldn’t this ‘American Plan,’ as you call it, raise all our taxes? And we have to pay for the same goods everyone else does, after all.”
“That’s Toby.” Justin wondered when his friend had become so interested in current affairs. Perhaps he intended to go into politics, too. His friend was ambitious, and the Johnson family’s wealth would support a campaign, but Justin wouldn’t care for the career choice. He preferred the independence of farming and raising livestock.
“A good question, my friend.” Ever the politician, Clay wasn’t put off his stride by Toby’s question. “A great American once said, ‘nothing is certain in this world but death and taxes.’ ”
Most of the audience was familiar with the quote from Benjamin Franklin and laughed. Justin craned his neck to see Toby. He caught a glimpse of his friend, who was standing with Abby and her father. A needle of jealousy stabbed his chest, and his jaw clenched. How many times had Justin schemed to simply catch a glimpse of Abby from afar, while Toby appeared to enjoy the most casual acquaintance with the Whitfield family? No doubt he was trying to impress Abby by questioning Henry Clay.
“No one likes taxes, to be sure,” Clay said. “But they pay for some fundamental services we all rely on, not the least of which is the very postal service Mr. Franklin created. But I anticipate great things for the American West. The more this country of ours grows, the more we will need railroads, canals, roads, and the like to make sure your crops can be shipped efficiently to the mills and factories in the east, and the hungry mouths waiting there.” This met with scattered applause. “The beauty of federal taxes is that everyone in this great country will help pay to build those roads for you, and you, and you.” Clay pointed to individuals in the audience and a few more people in the crowd applauded.
“Speaking of the west,” someone called out to Clay. “What about Mexico?”
“Ah, Mexico.” Clay stuck his thumbs under his braces. “There’s a conflict brewing, if ever I saw one.” Many in the audience grumbled their agreement. “That part of the continent we call Texas is already populated by any number of Americans, and more are on the way. Unfortunately, Mexico is not in a position to guarantee the safety of these settlers, or even maintain the rule of law. Some say there will be war. Personally, I don’t believe that will be necessary, but if Mexico is incapable or unwilling, we should do everything we can to develop the nearly unlimited resources we could find there.”
Justin turned to his father. “How can America do that without a war?”
“War isn’t always the answer to a country’s troubles,” Walter said. “Mr. Pinckney kept us out of war with Spain not so long ago, and don’t forget President Monroe, who gave us Louisiana. Now there was an international horse trader of some repute.”
“Of course.” Justin decided Clay was happy to be diverted from the subject of taxes, but Mexico was a topic of some fascination for Justin. He had read stories of the conquistadores of centuries past, and he’d often wondered what adventures lay west of Tennessee. Not that he ever thought he’d go there. A farmer was tied to his land, after all. Justin enjoyed the hard work. He had no qualms about carrying on the li
fe his father had created.
Of course every aspect of that life would be nicer if he shared it with a woman like Abigail Whitfield. But the Whitfields enjoyed many of life’s comforts, and Justin had difficulty envisioning Abby embracing the strenuous life of a poor farmer’s wife. That, as much as anything else, prodded him to improve his family’s condition in any way he could. Not so much to impress Abby. He wasn’t sure how much comfort she required, but he struggled to think of ways to meet Henry Whitfield’s demanding standards.
If Henry would ever give him the chance.
CHAPTER TEN
June 1834
Plans for Abigail’s party proceeded apace, and she was not surprised to find that her mother had long ago ordered pastry flour, colored bunting, and other items from Nashville she thought necessary for the party. The date was set, or rather revealed, by her mother, and invitations were sent to better families throughout the county and beyond. Marshaling her troops, Henrietta assigned their servant Martha the responsibility of ensuring Abigail had a proper dress for the occasion. The few farmhands Henry could spare did their best to prepare the lawn and gardens surrounding the main house. Henry special-ordered cut lumber, and extra help had been hired to construct the gazebo Abigail saw rising by the fish pond.
She watched these preparations from her bedroom with great trepidation. She reviewed the list of invitees over and over again, inspecting the names and trying to decide with which of the young men her mother might try to match her. Josiah Daniels would be there, of course, but who would want to marry him? His family had been one of the first, and certainly one of the wealthiest, to settle in the valley. But Josiah had a fondness for cakes, and rumors claimed that, though he was only twenty-four years old, his girth had swelled such that he weighed two hundred and seventy-five pounds. Enough to crush an unfortunate bride.
