by Dorothy Love
Charles coughed and sputtered. “Disowned? The way I remember it, you up and left the family, son. And broke your poor mother’s heart.”
“I’m sorry for that. But you made it clear there was no place for me here.”
A pained look crossed the older man’s face. “No place . . . is that what you thought? That I was throwing you out?”
“Weren’t you?” Even now, the thought burned a hole in his heart. He recalled the years spent in gaming halls, on riverboats, in anonymous cities, heartsick for his roots and alone. His father, so intent upon molding him into the son he wanted, had completely missed the one he actually had.
“I tried to give you what you wanted.” The old man picked up the handkerchief from the table and pressed it to his watery eyes. “The freedom to live life on your own terms. It’s what your mother urged me to do. But I . . . handled it all wrong. I never intended you to feel unwelcome. Disowned. I never wanted that.”
Griff felt his heart crack open. All this time he’d assumed Philip was the favored one and he was the black sheep, misunderstood and unloved. Was it possible that he’d been wrong? That what had looked like indifference was, in fact, his father’s way of showing love?
“But, Father, when I left you were so angry with me. So judgmental. I could see how disappointed you were, and I couldn’t bear it.”
“Disappointed, yes. Judgmental? Probably.” His father paused for breath. “But only because I missed you, son. Philip is not half the horseman you are, nor half the businessman either. I was angry at my loss. Not at you.”
“But—”
“In a way, I envied you. But I never stopped loving you. Never stopped trying to find out any bit of news about where you were and how you were getting on.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“In a way it was worse than if you had died. At least then I could have mourned you and . . . made my peace with your absence.”
Griff wiped his eyes. That his father loved him enough to give him the costliest gift imaginable—a life unencumbered by the obligations to the plantation and the way of life it engendered—was beyond his comprehension. How in the world had it taken him till now to understand that things are not always as they seem?
“Why didn’t you say something, Father? All these years when I thought—”
Tears streamed down the older man’s face. “Can you forgive a stubborn, arrogant old fool for getting it all wrong?”
The door opened and Philip came in. “Father? Dr. Pettigrew is here.”
Their father frowned and waved one hand. “What for? We all know I’m dying. Tell him to go away. What little time I have left I want to spend with my family. Is that clear?”
“But—”
Griff saw the genuine panic in Philip’s eyes. His father was right. Philip would be completely lost when it came to running things. At least Susan would be there to steady him in the days ahead.
“Go on now,” their father told his younger son. “If you want . . . to be useful, tell Susan to bring me up some tea. I’m feeling quite a chill.”
Griff took his seat beside the bed. His father fell into sleep, his breathing slow and shallow. In the shadowed room, Griff studied the old man’s hollowed cheeks and wrinkled brow and felt a sob catch in his throat. He had completely misjudged everything. Roamed the world in search of what he needed and returned home to find it. He reached down to clasp a gnarled hand. “I forgive you, and I hope you forgive me.”
Susan came into the room balancing the ornate silver tea tray Griff remembered from his boyhood, a wedding gift to his mother handed down through generations of Venables. She set it on the table beside the fireplace and turned to Griff, her fingers braided tightly. She looked precisely the way he remembered. Solemn gray eyes, hair coiled into ringlets held away from her face with silver combs. She was tastefully dressed in a simple gray wool gown. A small diamond pin on her shoulder winked in the light.
Griff rose and took both her hands in his. “Dear Susan. How are you?”
“All right.” Her eyes filled. “I never expected to see you again.”
“I’m a little surprised to be here myself.” He squeezed her hands. “You’re looking well.”
“I’m worried about Philip. He hasn’t your strength, Griff. Losing his father, being responsible for the Rutledge holdings—I fear he isn’t up to it.” She sighed. “Even if you and I hadn’t wed, if you and your father had reconciled, at least Philip would have you to rely upon now.”
Griff glanced at his sleeping father. “We’ve made our peace. I only regret it didn’t happen sooner.”
“Then you’ll come home? Help Phillip?”
“I’ll help in whatever way I can, but I won’t be coming back here. Not permanently anyway. I’ve made plans back in Hickory Ridge. Exciting plans. I hope you and Philip will visit next year and take a look.”
She spun away. “You’re going to throw your life away in some Appalachian backwater? Why, Philip says it’s hardly more than a logging camp.”
Griff smiled. “Philip wasn’t there long enough to appreciate everything it has to offer. It’s a small town, true enough, but I can’t praise it highly enough.”
She searched his face. “A woman deserves the credit for your good opinion of the place, I imagine. I hope she isn’t expecting too much from you.”
He had no idea what Carrie expected of him, but he intended to find out as soon as possible. Assuming she would still speak to him after his abrupt departure.
Another carriage rattled past. The fire popped and hissed. He glanced out the window.
“I see,” Susan said quietly. “You really are in love with her.”
The words both surprised and terrified him. But it was true that being around Carrie had softened the hard edges in his heart and given him hope that his life might still be redeemed. That even a man with his past, his passions, could be transformed into the kind of man she deserved.
A slow smile rippled across his face. “I never fully realized it before today. But yes, I believe I am.”
THIRTY-ONE
Holding tightly to Iris’s bridle, Carrie led the mare from the barn and backed her between the wagon shafts. She struggled with the harness, her fingers stiff in the damp chill of the early March morning. Plumes of gray smoke rose from the adjacent fields where farmers were burning off last winter’s stubble in preparation for spring planting. The acrid cloud mixed with the fog still hovering in the valleys and along the mountain ridges. Soon she would have to figure out how to ready her own fields, but that was a problem for another day.
She tightened the martingale and checked the bellyband before returning to the house for the six loaves of bread she’d baked before sunup. Setting them into her wicker basket, she covered the fragrant loaves with clean tea towels and picked up her empty reticule. Thank God Mrs. Whitcomb had doubled her weekly bread order. The money would keep them going for a short while longer. She tried not to think about how they would live until the garden could be planted and harvested or where on earth she would get shoes for Caleb and Joe. Just last week she’d cut a piece of old harness to cover the holes in the soles, but they were growing fast and they wouldn’t be able to wear the old ones much longer. And now she must provide for Henry’s only son.
Well, this was the task God had given her, and she would do her best to fulfill it. But why did everything have to be so difficult?
“The good Lord never gives us a heavier load than we can tote,” Granny Bell had told her more times than she could remember. And perhaps it was true. But she needed help now, celestial or otherwise.
Last night she had reached a painful decision. As reluctant as she was to sell her land, it was her best hope. Besides, with only Caleb and Joe to help her, she couldn’t plow, sow, hoe, and harvest it all anyway. She planned to pay Wat Stevens a visit later this morning. Perhaps he was still interested in the section down by Owl Creek.
She thought of Griff. With every passing day, she missed
him more acutely. Clearly, he was much too busy to continue looking after her. How could she expect him to? Her family and her troubles were not his responsibility. Still, she couldn’t help hoping to run into him in town—not that she had much time to seek him out. Since the baby’s arrival, her trips to town lasted only long enough to deliver the bread order to Mrs. Whitcomb and pick up the mail and supplies.
Last week two days of rain had kept her at home, leaving her with too much time to wonder about him, to remember their one kiss, so fraught with heat and longing. Even though she knew they were hopeless and foolish, she couldn’t stop her feelings for him. Five minutes in his company could lift her spirits and keep her going for days.
“Carrie?” Mary appeared in the doorway, her hair disheveled, the front of her dressing gown stiff and darkened with milk, the baby asleep on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I overslept. James Henry was fussy half the night. I’ve barely slept at all. Are the boys up?”
Tamping down her annoyance—she was tired too, after all—Carrie glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly eight. They left for school an hour ago.”
“Oh.” Mary sank onto a chair and shifted the baby to her other shoulder. He began to fuss, and she patted his back till he quieted. “I didn’t realize it was that late.”
“There’s coffee on the stove and leftover biscuits in the oven.” Carrie picked up her bread basket. “I must go. Mrs. Whitcomb doesn’t like me to be late.”
“Surely she understands how busy we are these days.”
We? Carrie bit back a retort and retrieved her woolen shawl from the hall tree. “I’ll be back this afternoon, after I see Wat Stevens.”
Mary nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that ever since you mentioned it, and I don’t think Henry would approve.”
“Of course he wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t approve of our starving to death either.” Carrie headed for the door.
“Wait.” Mary rose and hurried to her bedroom. Carrie heard her soothing the baby, cooing to him as she laid him down. A drawer rasped open. In a moment Mary returned and handed Carrie a black velvet case closed by a tarnished catch. “Take these. Sell them instead.”
Setting down her basket, Carrie opened the case. Nestled inside the satin-lined box were a ruby necklace, a matching bracelet, and a pair of earbobs set in delicate gold filigree. The jewels were quite small, but still . . . She lifted the necklace and watched the blood-red gems catch the light. “They’re beautiful. Where in the world did these come from?”
“They were my mother’s and her mother’s before that. Mother said that my grandmother wore them to dinners at Magnolia Hall before I was born.”
“You’ve had them all this time, while we were practically starving to death, and never said a word?”
“Maybe it was selfish of me. But these pieces are all I have left of my family.” Mary leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms. “They’re as important to me as this land is to you.” She sent Carrie a pleading look. “I don’t blame you for being angry with me, but try to understand.”
Carrie felt her anger soften. She could understand Mary’s reluctance to part with the last vestiges of her family’s history. Everyone needed something to hold on to. Hadn’t she kept Frank’s letters, her mother’s tortoiseshell hair comb, Granny Bell’s favorite quilt?
Mary went on. “Last night I realized that if you hadn’t come back here to take care of me and the boys, I might not have my baby now. My boys are worth more to me than anything.” She picked up the bracelet and draped it over her arm. “Besides, there’s no place around here to wear these.”
“Exactly.” Carrie set the necklace back into its satin nest. “Even if there were, nobody in Hickory Ridge has that kind of money.”
“Mr. Gilman has plenty of money, and his wife likes pretty things. Did you see that sapphire pin she wore on her hat at the harvest festival? She told everyone it came from the best store in Nashville. I’m sure it cost a fortune.” Mary set the bracelet back in the box and snapped the lid closed. “Take them, Carrie. Sell them for whatever you can get. If Mr. Gilman won’t buy them, try Jasper Pruitt at the mercantile.”
Carrie ran her fingers over the case. “I can’t imagine that Mr. Pruitt will have any use for them, but I’ll—”
The baby wailed. Mary scooped him up, and Carrie saw tears standing in her eyes. “Go now,” she whispered. “Take them before I change my mind.”
Carrie tucked the jewel case into the bread basket, picked up her reticule, and hurried out to the waiting wagon. The fog had burned away, revealing a bright blue sky that lifted her spirits. She climbed up and headed for town.
A long line of mourners joined Griff, Philip, and Susan at the cemetery. The weather was raw. A sharp wind, heavy with salt, whipped through the churchyard. Standing apart from the knot of mourners at the open gravesite, Griff nodded to the members of Charleston society who had come to pay respects and to a seemingly endless procession of black-clad Rutledge and Venable cousins he hadn’t seen since boyhood.
As dirt fell onto their father’s polished mahogany coffin, Philip wept openly. He had always been less inhibited than Griff when it came to displays of emotion. What Griff felt, deep in his soul, was a mixture of regret for the years he’d wasted, operating from the false assumption that his father had ceased to love him, and deep gratitude that he had learned the truth before it was too late. Despite the loss, he felt a sense of peace.
The service ended. Griff climbed into the crepe-draped carriage with Philip and Susan, and they returned to the house to greet the other mourners, who arrived with offerings of food and memories of Charles Rutledge. For a while the house hummed with sounds as stories were shared and condolences offered. After the last of the guests departed, several Venable cousins stayed behind to prepare a late lunch for the family. Then, with a flurry of embraces and last words of condolence, they too entered their waiting carriages and drove away.
The three of them sat in the dining room and poked at their food. Philip, his eyes red and swollen from crying, stared into the dancing flames, his fork poised above a plate of ham and grits. Finally he looked across the table at Griff. “Susan told me you aren’t planning to come home.”
“Charleston hasn’t been home for me in a long time. Even during the war, I felt like a stranger here.” He drank his tea and set down his cup. “Too restless, I reckon.”
Philip nodded. “Still planning your trip to Australia?”
“Not now. I’m staying on in Hickory Ridge.”
“And live in that rundown hotel?”
“Not for long.” He picked at a small lemon tart. “I’m working on getting my own place. I’m going back there tomorrow, in fact. On the afternoon train.”
“So soon? But what about Father’s will? The lawyers—”
“It’s only a formality, Philip. We both know what it says.” He waved one hand, taking in the house and its furnishings. “You’re welcome to all of it. I’m perfectly at peace with it.”
Philip pushed his plate away. “I daresay you would be, sitting on that fortune from your blockade-running days.”
Griff laughed. “I did all right, but the rumors of my vast fortune are highly exaggerated. Luckily, I already have everything I need to be happy.”
Philip went to the study and returned with a paper that he held out to Griff. “Here’s a list of things Mother wanted you to have. Father insisted that we keep them here until your return.”
Griff’s throat tightened at the sight of his mother’s small, neat handwriting, the ink faded now with age. He hadn’t let himself think of her very much in recent years, but now he remembered his mother as the epitome of a Southern lady—submissive, delicate, and except for rare occasions when she attempted to influence her husband’s choices, silent to the bone. At nineteen she had married Charles Rutledge and spent her life in the separate sphere of women, an ethereal presence in her sons’ lives, but always a loving one.
He scanned the list of silver pieces,
jewelry, and personal items. Charlotte Venable Rutledge had wanted Griff to have the small things that meant the most to her. That legacy was more than enough for him.
“You’re entitled to it all.” Philip poked the fire. “You’re the eldest son. Mother left it to you. But I wish you wouldn’t take the sapphire and diamond ring.” He smiled fondly at Susan. “I have plans for it.”
Griff felt a stab of dismay. Father was barely cold and in the ground, and already an argument was brewing. He hated to appear greedy and unaccommodating, but his mother had worn that ring until her death. It was a little piece of her. And the stones reminded him of Carrie’s clear blue eyes. Lately he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to appear selfish, but I can’t part with it.” He grinned as an extraordinary thought struck him. “Turns out, I may have plans for it myself.”
THIRTY-TWO
“Come on in here, girl.” Mrs. Whitcomb held the door open and motioned Carrie into the Verandah’s dusty parlor. “Land’s sakes, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Carrie handed the older woman the loaves of bread. She covered the jewelry box with the towel and set the basket aside. “I’m glad to see you too.”
Mrs. Whitcomb plopped onto the settee in the parlor and picked up her knitting. “Things haven’t been the same around here since you and Rosaleen left.”
Carrie’s heart jolted. With everything that had happened lately, she hadn’t had time to think about Rosaleen. About the near certainty that the woman was Sophie’s mother. About the effect such news would have on Sophie and on Ada. About what Nate must be feeling.
“Have you heard from Rosaleen since she left town?”
“Not a blessed word.” Mrs. Whitcomb shook her head. “I could wring that woman’s neck for the way she treated Nate Chastain. She used him is all. And the poor man is taking it hard.” She patted Carrie’s hand. “But let’s not talk about her. Tell me, how are Mary and the baby?”
