by Lynn Austin
“I’ll be there,” she told him. “I’m staying with the Blakes for the time being. I should warn you, though, that Mr. Blake may not be amenable to the idea. Or friendly towards you. But if you could simply explain some of the options he has for getting workers to return to his plantation, I’m sure his mother would be very grateful.”
“Certainly. I’ll be happy to. And if you—”
“Thank you. Good day.” She turned around and hurried away before he could say more, heading back the way she had just come.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday,” he called to her.
She knew it was impolite to leave so abruptly, but she had no wish to hear more from him, nor did she want to be seen talking to him. She passed him again a few minutes later after climbing into her family’s carriage, but she ignored him as they rode past, leaving him alone by the side of the road, holding his dusty bouquet of chicory blooms.
Dread tugged on Josephine’s stomach like a fretful child as her driver dropped her off in front of the Blakes’ pillared porch a few minutes later. It no longer seemed possible to be grateful for anything. Then Mrs. Blake greeted Josephine with a hug that melted her heart. How starved she must be for someone to hold, someone who could give her a shred of human affection and hope. Heaven knows she wasn’t getting either from Harrison.
“It’s so kind of you to stay and help us, Josephine. I hope your mother didn’t force you to come.”
“Of course not. I’m happy to help. It must be so lonely for you here.”
“Yes, it has been lonely.” Priscilla continued to talk as she led Josephine into the foyer, then up the stairs to a dusty, airless bedroom. “I apologize for not airing out your room properly, but we’ve been without help since Minnie quit, and I simply couldn’t do it all alone.”
Josephine nodded in sympathy. “You mustn’t worry about it. I’m here to help you in any way I can.”
“If I could just get one of our slaves to come back and clean and cook for us . . .”
“I might be able to help you find someone. There’s a new government office in the village that helps with such things. I’ve already spoken with one of the agents on your behalf.”
“You’re an angel, Josephine. A godsend.”
Jo laid her satchel on the bed and dug inside it for the little tin box she’d packed. “I brought you some chamomile blossoms I picked and dried. Shall I make tea for us, Mrs. Blake?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll go downstairs and see if Harrison is awake. He would enjoy some tea and some company, too.”
Into the badger’s den, Josephine thought as she carried the tea tray into his room a few minutes later. She hadn’t known him well before the war because of the difference in their ages, but he had never looked as angry and unkempt back then as he did now. His skin was as white and fragile as eggshells beneath his black, untrimmed beard and overgrown hair, his dark eyes as frightening as a nightmare. Jo forced a smile. “Good afternoon, Harrison.”
“Go away. I don’t want you to read your insipid books to me. I’m perfectly capable of reading if I decide I want to waste my time with ridiculous imaginary stories.”
“I’ve brought you some tea,” she said, setting the tray on his bedside table. “And my brother Daniel sent over some newspapers if you’d like to read them.”
“I wouldn’t. Why read about a world that I’ll never be part of again?”
“Is that what you’ve decided to do? Cut yourself off from the outside world?” It wasn’t like Josephine to be so outspoken, but her thoughts and words, like the upstairs bedroom, had been locked up and unaired for much too long. If Harrison could be blunt, then so could she.
“I don’t have any choice in the matter!” he shouted. “Look at me! How am I supposed to live a normal life?”
She took a slow, deep breath for courage. “I heard Dr. Hunter say the other day that there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“The doctor is a fool who still has two perfectly good legs! Look at me!” He threw back the covers to show her the ugly stump of his leg, severed above his knee. It resembled a chunk of raw meat, scarred and bitter red. “Does this look like there’s nothing wrong with me?”
Josephine looked away, shocked. But she quickly met his gaze again, refusing to let him win. “You aren’t the only man who was grievously wounded. If you wanted to, you could hire workers to plant your crops and get your plantation running again.”
“Are you really that stupid? I have no slaves to do the work and no money to hire workers. I’ve lost everything!”
“No one has slaves, Harrison. But we still have to get our crops planted so we won’t starve to death. I’ve spoken with the agent from that new government bureau in Fairmont. He’s coming here later this week to talk with you about—”
“You have a lot of nerve. Get out of my house! Get out!” He knocked the tray off his bedside table, smashing the teacup, before picking up a book and throwing it at her. Josephine ducked just in time. She had never been treated this way in her life. Part of her wanted to run out the door and never come back, but another part of her was tired of being chased away by fear, and it made her angry enough to fight. She picked up the book and threw it back at him, missing his head by mere inches. It thumped against the wall and tumbled to the floor.
“There! How do you like it?” He glared at her, his expression as dark and deep as a well. She didn’t know why she no longer felt afraid of him, but she didn’t. “Are we going to continue this throwing match, or are you going to be civil to me?”
“Go home, you stupid child. I don’t want you here.”
Josephine shook her head. “I’m not here for your sake. I’m here for your mother’s. Maybe you deserve to live all alone, but she doesn’t.”
“My mother will be better off without me.”
“What a stupid, selfish thing to say!” She moved closer to the bed, lowering her voice so his mother wouldn’t overhear. “Have you ever stopped to consider her feelings? You just told me how you’ve lost everything, but she has, too, Harrison. You’re all she has left, and I don’t think she can bear another loss. You’re the only reminder she has of your father and the life she used to live. I don’t care how miserable you are, but the least you can do is try to rebuild your life for her sake.”
Josephine turned and left the room. She was trembling so badly that she needed to sit down, but she felt relieved by her outburst, the way a thunderstorm clears the air on a humid summer night so that everyone can breathe again. She had held her feelings inside for much too long, and had finally found her voice again. And for that she was grateful.
11
MAY 17, 1865
Eugenia ran her hand along the railing as she descended the stairs to the foyer. The wood was bone-dry. The mahogany banisters and railing needed to be oiled and polished or they would grow brittle and splinter in the summer heat. The same was true of the furniture in the parlor, languishing beneath layers of dust that made Eugenia sneeze every time she walked in the room. The floors felt gritty beneath her shoes. The floorboards hadn’t been scrubbed and waxed in ages, nor had the few remaining rugs been beaten or the draperies and feather bedding aired. Cobwebs dangled from the crown molding above her head. Eugenia watched her once-beautiful home falling into ruin around her and felt helpless.
The deterioration wasn’t only on the inside of the house. When Eugenia reached her morning room and gazed through the streaked windowpanes, she could see weeds growing in the distant fields instead of cotton, outbuildings in need of paint and repair, a vegetable garden that should be properly watered and tended if her family ever hoped to eat a decent meal again. She had finished breakfast only an hour ago but the continual aching rumble in Eugenia’s stomach refused to go away. Her daughters looked as spindly as field hands.
She picked up the framed photograph of Philip she kept on her writing desk and studied his handsome face. Sometimes when she looked at him, she could almost hear a melody from happier days playing in the
background, a waltz they had once shared or music from a recital they had attended together in Richmond. But she heard no music today as she stared at his picture. Instead, she felt a rush of anger toward him for deserting her. She laid the photograph facedown on the table.
Philip had held Eugenia’s world together during the early years of the war, running the plantation, keeping the Negroes working, supporting the Confederacy by contributing money and supplies. He hadn’t left to join the fighting until the war crept dangerously close to their land and all the men his age had been drafted into the Home Guard. In the end, he hadn’t died in battle but of pneumonia during the last long winter of the war. A month later the Yankees had come, and she’d been forced to flee to Richmond. She and her family had been barely scraping by ever since, surviving on a hidden cache of money that Philip had wisely kept in reserve.
Eugenia had been so relieved when Daniel arrived home three weeks ago, certain he would take care of them all. But as she watched him wander around the plantation with dragging footsteps and drooping shoulders, it was clear the war had killed something vital in him. He had no idea what to do or where to begin to restore their plantation. His depression and lack of initiative frightened Eugenia more than the Yankees had. What was she going to do?
She moved away from the window and stumbled toward her armchair as she felt the familiar pressure begin to build behind her breastbone. Sometimes the sickening nausea swelled inside her until she couldn’t breathe. Eugenia hadn’t told anyone about the “spells” she’d been having. Why add to their worries? If she simply sat down for a few minutes and took her mind off her difficulties, sipping a little tea to calm her, the pain would eventually go away. She rang the bell beside her chair and closed her eyes while she waited for Lizzie to respond. She opened them again when she heard the maid’s shuffling footsteps.
“Yes, ma’am?” Lizzie’s aggrieved tone and impatient stance made the pressure in Eugenia’s chest tighten as if winding a clock spring.
“I would like a cup of tea, Lizzie. Kindly use some of the mint leaves that Josephine picked and dried.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lizzie slouched away, her annoyance obvious.
The tea helped soothe Eugenia, and so did the cheerful bouquet of apple blossoms Josephine had arranged in a glass on the writing desk. Eugenia hadn’t realized how much work Josephine used to do around the house and how dependent they all were on her until she’d gone to stay with Priscilla and Harrison four days ago. The house seemed empty without her, even though Jo had always been quiet and withdrawn. Her nature was so different from Eugenia’s that she sometimes wondered if the midwife had switched her real daughter with another baby at birth.
By the time Mary joined Eugenia in the morning room a few minutes later, the pain in her chest had eased. “What shall we do today, Mother?”
Should she ask Mary to do household chores or work in the garden the way Josephine had? Maybe Lizzie could teach her to do simple things like dusting the furniture or polishing the woodwork. But no, it would be much harder to find a suitable husband to take care of Mary and provide for her future if she had work-callused hands or skin that had browned in the sun. Eugenia forced herself not to think about the future, knowing the pain would begin all over again if she did.
“I think we’ll visit Priscilla today and see how she and Josephine are getting along.”
Mary made a face. “Do I have to go with you?”
“I do not like that whiny tone, Mary Louise. You must learn to ask for things without whining.”
“Please, I would rather not go, Mother.”
Eugenia couldn’t blame her. Harrison could be gloomy when he was in one of his moods. In fact, Eugenia couldn’t remember a visit when he hadn’t been gloomy. “You may stay home, but you must promise to study your lessons while I’m gone.” The war had forced Eugenia to become her daughter’s schoolteacher, too, since they could no longer afford a private tutor.
“I promise I’ll study. Please, Mother?”
“Very well. Kindly tell Daniel that I’ll need the carriage and a driver.”
Otis drove Eugenia the short distance to Priscilla’s house. She had never handled the reins of a carriage in her life and she wasn’t about to, no matter how many other jobs seemed more pressing to their one and only field hand. “Come back for me before lunchtime, please,” she told him.
Another horse was already tethered to the hitching post when Eugenia arrived at the Blakes’ plantation. “Am I interrupting something?” she asked when Priscilla came to the door. “Do you have company? Shall I come back another day?”
“No, please come in. I need your help, Eugenia. I don’t know what to do.”
Eugenia was still outside the front door when she heard Harrison bellowing at someone in his bedroom, yelling at the top of his voice.
“I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry,” Priscilla said, glancing in his direction. “You shouldn’t have to witness such an uproar, Eugenia, but—”
“What’s going on? Who’s here?”
“A gentleman from some government agency in town. Josephine invited him here to talk to Harrison about hiring help for the plantation, but—”
“Get out!” Harrison’s furious shout interrupted her, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Josephine emerged from the bedroom a moment later, trailed by a tall young man. He appeared shaken.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Chandler,” Josephine was saying as they proceeded down the hall toward Eugenia, “but if Harrison doesn’t want to listen to you, maybe you should explain everything to Mrs. Blake and me. As you can see, she needs your help and . . . Oh, hello, Mother.”
Josephine introduced Eugenia to Mr. Chandler, explaining that he was an agent with the Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and Abandoned Lands. He looked much too young and inexperienced to hold a government position. What must the Yankees think of them to send someone so young? Did they believe plantation owners were all uneducated bumpkins?
“How do you do, Mrs. Weatherly.” The agent extended his hand, but Eugenia ignored it. She didn’t blame Harrison one bit for kicking him out. What was wrong with Josephine that she would welcome him here? If this were Eugenia’s home, she would order him out immediately, but it wasn’t. She was Priscilla’s guest. And this wasn’t the time or the place to chide her daughter.
Eugenia sat down in the parlor with the others, half listening as the Yankee explained how plantation owners could get their work force back by an arrangement called sharecropping or by hiring Negroes as tenant farmers. Eugenia hadn’t planned to pay much attention, but the more Mr. Chandler talked, the more she realized that Daniel needed help with White Oak just as badly as Harrison and Priscilla did. But like Harrison, Daniel would never swallow his pride and ask a Yankee for help.
“The plantations need laborers and the Negroes need work,” Mr. Chandler finished. “This is really the best solution for everyone.”
“Could Mrs. Blake also arrange to hire house servants?” Josephine asked. She looked directly at Eugenia, as if to make sure her mother was listening to his reply.
“Most Negro families want to stay together,” Mr. Chandler said. “So, yes, we often arrange for the wives to work in the manor house in exchange for room and board.”
Josephine was still staring at Eugenia, eyebrows raised as if to say, See, Mother? She was right, of course. Lizzie did need help.
“Would you like some time to think about it?” Mr. Chandler asked. “I could come back again.”
Priscilla looked to Eugenia as if shifting the weight of the decision to her. “What do you think I should I do, Eugenia?”
Josephine spoke before Eugenia could reply. “You should sign the contract, Mrs. Blake. It’s the only way to get the help you need.” Eugenia stared at her daughter. How had she suddenly become so strong and decisive? So unladylike?
“But shouldn’t Harrison be the one to decide?” Priscilla asked. Her fingers fluttered to her throat and plucked nervously at her collar. Neither
she nor Eugenia had been raised to take charge this way. Eugenia wondered if her friend also felt moments of irrational anger toward her husband for dying and leaving her in this predicament. Their husbands had vowed to take care of them.
“Harrison is unable to decide anything,” Josephine said, “until he is out of bed and feeling better. In the meantime, planting your crops is a matter of life and death.”
“You should listen to her, Mrs. Blake,” Mr. Chandler said. “Miss Weatherly has a very good head on her shoulders. I’ll be available to advise you along the way, of course, and to make sure your laborers are working hard and fulfilling their contracts. It’s my job to see to everyone’s best interests.”
“How soon can she hire workers?” Josephine asked.
“Right away. I’ll go back to my office and start the process—if that’s what you want, Mrs. Blake.”
Again she looked to Eugenia. Deciding for her friend was much easier for Eugenia than deciding for herself. “I think you should do it, Priscilla.”
Mr. Chandler smiled. “Good. I’ll talk to the workers and come back in a few days. Good day, ladies.” Josephine rose and walked to the door with him.
While they were gone, Eugenia leaned back in her chair and gazed around the parlor for the first time since she’d arrived. It looked different than it had just a week ago, yet Eugenia couldn’t put her finger on what made the difference. Was it because the draperies had been opened to the sun? Had the furniture been polished? If so, Josephine must have done all the work—but why? Eugenia hated seeing her daughter stray so far from her aristocratic upbringing to labor like a common woman, even though her hard work was saving all of them. The thought struck her that if Daniel had even half of his sister’s gumption, Eugenia wouldn’t be so fearful of the future.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” Priscilla asked, interrupting Eugenia’s thoughts. “I would hate to have Harrison angry with me, but what Josephine says makes sense. I’m so confused.”
