Rosemary Haynes cheered until she was hoarse.
Andrew Ravanel was transformed. The melancholic roisterer became cheerful; the man who’d been oblivious of other’s sensitivities became solicitous. As a servant of the new republic, Andrew Ravanel became a king.
Like thieves in the night, Charleston’s Federal garrison withdrew itself into Fort Sumter, the powerful island fortress in the heart of Charleston harbor. Indignant Charlestonians protested this seizure of Carolina property and Mr. Lincoln was informed that any attempt to relieve or supply Fort Sumter would be severely rebuked.
When she came home to her own doorstep after a morning applauding cavalry drills, Rosemary’s heart sank. She took a deep breath and comforted herself: Meg is waiting for me. Those mornings the Light Horse didn’t drill, Rosemary woke with a headache and stayed in bed until noon.
Rosemary Butler Haynes knew she mustn’t give in to disaffection. John Haynes was a good man. Had John Haynes ever claimed to be a horseman? On the contrary, he joked about his poor seat. If John Haynes’s fingers were ink-stained, John was in trade: how could they not be stained?
Yet some mornings after her husband left for work, sitting alone, the memory of Andrew Ravanel’s kiss overwhelmed her. A chasm had opened between her and Charlotte. When her old friend called at 46 Church Street, “Miss Rosemary, she ain’t at home”; “Miss Rosemary, she indisposed.” How could Rosemary chat with the old friend who shared Andrew’s home, his life, his bright hopes, his bed?
Rosemary tried very hard to banish regrets for what her life might have been.
Rosemary’s husband brought small gifts; a silver bud vase, a rose-gold filigree brooch. Was it John’s fault the vase was too fussy and the brooch didn’t match anything Rosemary wore?
John never talked politics and never watched the Light Horse drills. He even defended Charleston’s few remaining Unionists: “Can’t we differ without impugning honest men?” Every morning excepting the Sabbath, John walked from Church Street to his office on the Haynes & Son wharf. All day, he negotiated with ship captains, shippers, consignors, and insurers. One spring evening, Rosemary happened to be at the front windows as her husband hurried up the steps of his home, a glad smile flickering on his lips. Thereafter, she avoided the front windows when John was due. Rosemary stayed in her room while John played with Meg for an hour before supper.
After supper, they heard Meg say her simple prayers and put her to bed. Then John Haynes read aloud to Rosemary from Bulwer-Lytton or some other improving novelist. “Of course, my dear, if you’d prefer something lighter? One of Mr. Scott’s works?”
John concluded every evening with prayers for Charleston and the South. He prayed its leaders would be wise. He prayed for the health and happiness of friends and kinfolk, one at a time, naming each. At the top of the stairs, as they turned to their separate bedrooms, John Haynes sometimes inquired hopefully how his wife was feeling.
“No, dear,” Rosemary would murmur. “Not tonight.”
Sometimes, Rosemary felt so guilty that she’d say too brightly, “Oh, I feel fine, John.” Her husband would spend the night with her and depart the house next morning whistling. Rosemary desperately wished John wouldn’t whistle. Whistling gave her a headache.
Their little daughter was Rosemary and John’s shared joy.
The father said, “When I drove little Meg to White Point Park, she stood up in her yellow shawl and saluted the soldiers. When a cavalryman drew his saber to return her little salute, the blade’s scrape against its scabbard frightened Meg and our poor darling burst into tears.”
The mother said, “Did you see what our scamp did with her blue shoes? She never liked them, so she told Cleo to give them to some poorer child. ‘I gots too many shoes.’”
Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas followed South Carolina out of the Union.
Although that January was exceptionally cold—there’d been snow in the Piedmont—Charlestonians ignored the discomfort to attend the first Race Week ever held in an independent South Carolina.
John Haynes had canceled his New York and Philadelphia excursion boats but filled vacancies with Richmond and Baltimore tourists.
Judges of horseflesh said Langston Butler’s Gero’s matchup with John Cantey’s Albine was the most thrilling race in a hundred years; it was rumored Butler had turned down $25,000 for Gero.
Hibernian Hall had been decorated in patriotic motifs for the St. Cecilia Society ball. The gay banners of Charleston’s militia companies adorned the walls and a ferocious (if somewhat cockeyed) eagle had been painted upon the dance floor.
As a ball manager, John Haynes wore a white boutonniere.
The society’s orchestra was composed of house servants spared from their usual duties. It was a standing Charleston joke that Horace, the orchestra master, could not read a note of the music he arranged so fussily before him. Nevertheless, his versatile orchestra performed stately French quadrilles as well as the exuberant reels the young people preferred—reels driven by Cassius’s flashing banjo.
This evening on the brink of war, Charleston’s belles had never been more beautiful. These young virgins were every grace and prayer for which brave men have ever fought and died. No one in the ballroom that night ever forgot their heartbreaking beauty.
Their squires were solemn and proud under the grave responsibilities thrust upon them. Not far beneath their visible bravado was each young man’s desperate hope that he might prove worthy when the test came.
War fever pushed gaiety toward hysteria. Would the Federals abandon Fort Sumter, or must it be shelled into submission? Would Virginia and North Carolina secede? Langston Butler and Wade Hampton were in Montgomery, Alabama, to help choose a provisional president for the new Confederate States of America. Toombs, Yancey, Davis—who would be the man of the hour?
Why, Jamie,” Rosemary said, “why aren’t you in uniform?”
“I look like a jumped-up monkey in my uniform,” the slender youth admitted.
Rosemary’s face was flushed with excitement. “Will we go to war, Jamie? It’s awful of me, but I hope we will.”
“Andrew is bloodthirsty, too.” Jamie shuddered. “Look at him. Wearing spurs at the St. Cecilia Ball! Dear me.”
Andrew Ravanel smiled at her.
Rosemary wouldn’t meet his eye. “And you, Jamie? How is it with you?”
Jamie Fisher shrugged. “I am not warlike. Oh, I’ll fight if I must, but war will be so darned uncomfortable.” His ironic smile dropped from his lips. “What will war do to our horses? What do horses care about politics?”
Juliet Ravanel tapped Jamie’s elbow with her fan. Miss Ravanel was much in demand as a regimental flag embroiderer, and her new prominence had mellowed her. Her taffeta ball gown was perfectly cut and sewed but, alas, purple was just not Juliet’s color. “Mrs. Haynes.” She mock-curtsied. “Isn’t this a gala? Is your card filled?”
“What dances John didn’t take, elderly Haynes cousins have. Balding men with wooden teeth and execrable breath are eager to squire their captivating kinswoman.”
Miss Ravanel examined her card, “Jamie, I have two waltzes and the promenade open.”
“Do you promise not to lead?”
Juliet’s smile could have frozen salt water.
Provided his partner was careful of her toes during intricate figures, John Haynes could manage a quadrille.
Rosemary smiled fixedly during the deux temps. “Sorry, dear,” her husband whispered. “Mercy. What a clodhopper I am.” John’s hand on her back was flat as a meat platter, and his hand at her waist was thick and possessive. Bowing afterward, John said earnestly, “Rosemary, you are the most beautiful woman in the hall. I am the happiest husband in South Carolina.”
Rosemary fought the urge to reclaim her hand. “Only South Carolina?” she managed to say.
“In the world. On every blessed continent of the blessed world.” His plump, warm lips kissed her hand.
Ano
ther deux temps, a promenade. As they were forming for the quadrille, there was a stir at the door and a manager hurried up to them. John bent his head to the man’s whisper.
John Haynes turned to his wife. “Dearest, I must go to the wharf. Someone has landed munitions that may have been intended for the Yankees. Give others my dances. Please don’t let me spoil your evening.”
Rosemary promised.
Ten minutes after John Haynes left, Andrew Ravanel was at Rosemary’s side. He smelled strongly of bay rum and slightly of perspiration. His bow was lavish. “Rosemary…”
“Captain Ravanel, are we speaking?”
Andrew’s smile was wistful. “You have every right to be angry. I am the worst scoundrel in the Low Country.”
“The last time we were on familiar terms, sir, you compromised me. I believe I owe you my matrimonial status.”
“Are you the worse off? Surely John Haynes is an … adequate husband.”
Rosemary narrowed her eyes. “Take care, sir.”
Andrew’s eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “If I have given fresh offense …”
“I haven’t forgiven you for your earlier offense,” Rosemary said.
“I haven’t forgiven myself! I lie awake wondering if my mad kiss was worth the reckoning. But Rosemary, wasn’t that a transporting moment? God! I will never forget how … Rosemary, I despise irony. Don’t you hate it, too? How ironic that my declaration of love should drive us apart—each into another’s arms.”
“Declaration of love? Captain, am I an idiot? Do you think I might mistake what you did for a declaration of love?”
Andrew put a hand over his heart. “When I am mortally wounded, on some distant battlefield, my last thoughts will be of that kiss. Would you let me go to war without a waltz?”
“In that extremis, sir, one’s last thoughts are of one’s beloved. As you pass to your eternal reward, it will be Charlotte’s face you will recall, not mine. Unless, of course, a more recent conquest pushes Charlotte aside.”
Andrew flushed, then laughed so infectiously that nearby couples smiled. Andrew laid his hand upon his heart. “Rosemary, I cannot promise fidelity, but I guarantee your exclusive possession of my last thoughts.”
“There won’t be a war anyway.”
“Dear Rosemary, of course there’ll be a war. Our uniforms are pressed, swords honed, and pistols primed. Rosemary, the orchestra is tuning. I haven’t forgotten what a marvelous dancer you are.”
Dancing with Andrew Ravanel was a dangerous, brilliant conversation. Andrew anticipated her nuances and enhanced them; his rhythms reflected Rosemary’s and commented upon them.
The music—one of Mr. Strauss’s waltzes in three-quarter time—ended too soon. As other dancers were honoring their partners, Rosemary fluttered her fan.
“Another?”
Andrew Ravanel danced all John Haynes’s dances. During the first intermission, Grandmother Fisher took Rosemary aside. “Charlotte has left in tears! Rosemary, think what you are doing!”
But Rosemary couldn’t think about it. She had denied herself too long.
At midnight, after the quadrille, couples promenaded into the dining room for the cold collation. Men stepped out onto the piazza to smoke and the scent of tobacco wafted into the too-hot high-ceilinged dining room. Men and women Rosemary had known all her life wouldn’t meet her eye. She might have been invisible.
“As well be hung for a sheep…” Andrew murmured in her ear, and then called, “Henry Kershaw, you rogue. Will you take supper with us?”
Us? Us? Rosemary hadn’t thought to become an us. “No,” she blurted, jerking her arm from Andrew Ravanel’s.
Gentlemen moved aside when Rosemary fled onto the piazza. Across the street, in the circle of gaslight outside Garrity’s saloon, drunken militiamen were singing.
Damn, damn, damn!
Constance Fisher joined her, pulling her shawl close. “Child, where is your cloak?”
Rosemary shook her head.
“I must say, my dear …”
Tears flooded Rosemary’s cheeks, “Oh, Grandmother Fisher, I am a fool, such a fool. Whatever have I done?”
The old woman relaxed slightly. “Child, you have been extremely unwise.”
“What must John think? What will Charlotte?”
“Were she I…” the older woman warned.
“Oh, Grandmother Fisher! What shall I do?” Rosemary grasped the balustrade to steady herself.
Grandmother Fisher gripped her shoulders. “You will do what Charleston ladies do. Presented with mulatto children who resemble their husbands like peas in a pod; awakened by their husbands’ drunken footfalls approaching their bed; you will do what Charleston ladies have always done: you will fix a smile on your face and pretend that God’s in His heaven and nothing—absolutely nothing—is wrong in His world.”
For the rest of that evening, Rosemary sat with Constance Fisher. When Andrew Ravanel sought to approach, his wife’s grandmother’s glare repelled him.
Andrew whirled by with the youngest, loveliest maiden at the ball. The girl never took her adoring eyes off the chevalier.
He is a magnet, Rosemary thought. What does a magnet think of consequences?
Very late in the evening, there was a flurry at the doorway. John Haynes bustled toward his wife, beaming with pleasure. He shrugged off Juliet Ravanel’s importuning hand with, “Another time, Juliet, please.”
The dark-haired gentleman who’d followed John Haynes into Hibernian Hall gave his cloak to a footman. Horace, the orchestra leader, lost the beat, and the musicians faltered. Gradually, dancers stopped, turned, stared.
Rosemary gasped.
A red carnation adorned Rhett Butler’s wide velvet lapels. His shirtfront was resplendent with ruffles; his studs were gold nuggets the size of peas. He held a wide-brimmed planter’s hat at his side. Her brother’s hands were so much bigger than Rosemary remembered.
“Evening, Cap’n Butler,” Horace said. “We ain’t seen you in such a spell.”
“Evening, Horace. And you—you must be Cassius, the banjo man? You’re known, son. They’ve heard about your picking as far away as New Orleans.”
Cassius struck three high lonesome chords. “Sir, thank you, sir. I reckon everybody’s heard of Cap’n Butler.”
Rhett raised his hands. “Please don’t stop the dancing on my account. Don’t let me interrupt your festivities. There’s far too much to celebrate. Who would have predicted brave Charleston would goad the sleeping Federal giant?” When Rhett Butler bowed, his black hair gleamed.
“Edgar Puryear. So you’re an officer now. Is that Henry Kershaw? My God, it’s Lieutenant Henry Kershaw? And my old friend Andrew …”
Andrew Ravanel was speechless, transfixed.
The laugh lines at the corners of Rosemary’s brother’s eyes were familiar and dear. How could she have forgotten how graceful he was? Rosemary walked to him as if in a dream.
Rhett’s eyes stopped laughing.
Cassius struck the first gentle notes of Stephen Foster’s “Slumber My Darling” and paused.
“Little Rosemary, my beloved sister.” Her brother’s eyes were moist as he took her hands. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
CHAPTER NINE
A Barbecue at a Georgia Plantation
Rhett Butler hadn’t felt so helpless since that night twelve years ago, when he drank whiskey on Colonel Jack’s porch and found nothing worth living for.
Fort Sumter fired upon! What did the fools think they were playing at!
Rhett said, “I’ll take delivery at the railhead, Mr. Kennedy, my Atlanta bank will honor the draft.”
Frank Kennedy stroked his skimpy gingerish beard and turned Rhett’s check over, as if there might be more information on the blank side. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Of course …”
“If you are worried …”
“Oh no, Mr. Butler. No sir.” Frank Kennedy shook his head too vigorously.
The two men sto
od in the main room of Kennedy’s Jonesboro store. Hay cradles, smoked hams, and pitchforks hung from the rafters. Aisles were crammed with dry goods and farm supplies. The store stank of liniment, molasses, and pine tar.
The respectable citizens of Charleston, Langston Butler among them, had ignited a war! The smug, virtuous, hymn-singing, damnable fools!
A negro clerk was cautiously ladling turpentine into an earthenware crock, another swept the floor. Despite his unprepossessing appearance, Kennedy was a man of consequence who owned fifty slaves, a second store in Atlanta, and thousands of acres in prime Georgia cotton.
Rhett had bought Kennedy’s stored crop and stood to make a fortune. He should have felt good about that.
He felt like hell.
“Your business reputation is excellent.” Kennedy blinked and backtracked. “I mean …”
Rhett was expressionless. “Some say I’m a renegade.”
Kennedy ran a hand through his hair. “No offense, sir. I meant no offense.” He folded Rhett’s check and inserted it into his wallet. Having pocketed the wallet, he patted his pocket.
Rhett Butler didn’t voice his opinion that renegades might rob you or call you out but they wouldn’t fuss you to death.
A thought struck the embarrassed merchant. “Say, Butler.” Unconsciously, Kennedy patted his pocket again. “Have you anything on this afternoon? Wouldn’t you like a day in the country? John Wilkes’s son is getting engaged and John is hosting a barbecue. Everyone’s invited. Twelve Oaks’ hospitality … why, I can’t praise it too much.” His face went blank as he sought an encomium. “Twelve Oaks’ hospitality is famous!” He pointed more or less northward. “All the way to Atlanta. Please join me. I’ll bring you back in time for your train.”
Since Rhett’s train wouldn’t leave until ten that evening and, in his dismal state of mind, an afternoon in the Jonesboro Hotel would be an eternity, Rhett Kershaw Butler accepted Frank Kennedy’s invitation. More often than we care to admit, inconsequential decisions change our lives.
Rhett Butler's People Page 9
