All Things New

by Lynn Austin

  He lowered his head as if struggling to contain his anger. “I feel responsible for what happened because I was warned. Some folks told me they’d overheard a plot against the school. With nothing specific, it was hard to prepare for it. But I did report the threat to Richmond and asked for help.”

  “Didn’t they believe you?”

  “It didn’t matter if they did or not. The occupation forces are already spread too thinly. There’s more than enough trouble to deal with in Richmond. Fairmont is just a small country town.”

  “Well, if they aren’t going to send help, I hope you’ll take measures to protect yourself in the future.” She said this, knowing one of the arsonists might be her brother.

  “You mean arm myself?” Alexander shook his head. “I’ll never pick up another weapon for as long as I live.”

  “Then I think you are a very foolish man. Good day, Mr. Chandler.”

  “Josephine, wait!”

  She whirled around to face him, frustrated and furious—at him, at her brother, at her own helplessness. “What?”

  “I know I’m not welcome at your plantation. How will I see you? How can we talk?”

  She wanted to say, We can’t talk. I should never speak with you again. Especially after Harrison’s warning, and her mother’s. But the thought of not seeing Alexander again made her feel lonely and empty inside. There was more she wanted to know about the book of Job and about her unanswered prayers. Alexander had asked her to forgive him, and she had never replied. And she still didn’t know how to answer his question, “What do you want for your life, your future?”

  Josephine looked down at her torn shoe, not at him. “Remember the tree house on our property? Where we first met?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We can’t meet often, Alexander . . . but maybe once in a while.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She couldn’t breathe. “No . . . Tuesday. Early in the morning, before breakfast.” She hurried back to the house as fast as her ragged shoes would allow, wondering what in the world she was doing.

  21

  JUNE 3, 1865

  Eugenia searched in vain for an envelope. She’d had trouble enough finding a nice sheet of writing paper and enough ink to compose a letter to her sister, but evidently she had used up her supply of proper envelopes during the war. Never mind. Olivia would understand. The important thing was the message she was sending, that Olivia and Charles and their daughters were invited to Eugenia’s dance a month from now on the first of July. It would be a treat for them to get away from the devastated city for a weekend, away from the insufferable Yankee soldiers. Daniel would deliver her letter when he traveled to Richmond on Monday.

  The house seemed quiet. Where were Mary and Josephine? She thought it might be wise to find out. Ever since Josephine had returned home from Priscilla’s house, Eugenia had been forced to follow her around as if she were a toddler bent on mischief. Otherwise, she would find Josephine washing dishes in the kitchen or working outside in the garden or wandering in the woods or the cotton fields. Why wasn’t her daughter content to behave like a proper young lady? She needed to fall in love and settle down as badly as Daniel did.

  Eugenia looked through her morning room window to see if Josephine was working in the kitchen garden. Thankfully she wasn’t, unless she was out of sight, bending down to plant seeds or who knew what else. The morning mist that had draped over the landscape like a bridal veil had finally lifted and Eugenia could see the big, tall slave, Otis, repairing the pasture fence. The Yankees had dismantled many of the rails during the war, probably to use them for firewood. But now that Daniel had agreed to purchase a mule and some hogs and maybe a cow or another horse—as much as Eugenia’s dwindling funds would allow—the fences needed to be mended. She would give Daniel the last of the gold coins that she and her girls had sewn into the hems of their dresses. Thank God, Philip hadn’t invested every last cent they had in the Confederacy. At least they would survive for another year.

  Eugenia wandered through the empty, dusty rooms of her home, grieving over their faded beauty, and found Josephine and Mary in the drawing room. They sat in a patch of spring sunlight with the French doors to the terrace thrown wide open, and the room was filled with the scent of damp earth and new leaves. Mary was reading aloud in her rabbit-soft voice while Josephine bent over a lapful of billowing green taffeta—one of the dresses she had outgrown during the war. She was sewing. Sewing!

  Eugenia crossed the room and stood between Josephine and the doorway, blocking her light. “What are you doing?”

  Mary looked up, holding her place in the book with her finger, but Josephine continued stitching. “I’m altering my old dress to fit Mary.”

  “But . . . but you don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll ruin it.”

  “No, I won’t. I’ve done this before. One of Mrs. Blake’s new servants was an excellent seamstress, and she showed me how to take extra fabric and make gussets to make the bodice larger. And if I make the skirt a little less full, I can add the extra fabric to the hem to make it longer.”

  “Oh, Josephine.” Eugenia was both amazed and appalled.

  “I’m hoping to finish it in time for Mary to wear to your dance.”

  “But you aren’t a common seamstress. Sewing is beneath you. Why not give it to Priscilla’s servant and let her do it for you? I’m certain Priscilla won’t mind sharing her with us after everything you’ve done for her and Harrison.”

  Maddeningly, Josephine continued to stitch, poking the needle in and out, drawing the long thread through the shimmering green cloth. “Can you explain why embroidery is an acceptable pastime for young ladies,” she asked without looking up, “yet sewing isn’t? Don’t you think making something useful to wear is a much better use of my time than embroidering pillow cushions and handkerchiefs?”

  Eugenia controlled her emotions with great effort. “You girls descend from two of Virginia’s finest families, the cream of Southern aristocracy. Our women have never labored at such menial tasks. Yet every time I turn around I find you in the kitchen, Josephine, or in the garden. And now you’re sewing gowns? Who knows what you’ll be doing next? It’s unthinkable that we have been forced to stoop this low.”

  Josephine finally looked up, resting her hands in her lap. “Do you want Mary to have something to wear or not?”

  Eugenia couldn’t reply. Women were delicate creatures, cherished by their husbands and fathers and sons. Yet here sat her daughters, practically in rags, their toes sticking out of their shoes. How had they fallen this far? It wasn’t fair! She was furious with Philip and Samuel and Daniel, furious with all the other misguided men for failing to find a more civilized answer than declaring war.

  “Shall I sit here and embroider samplers, Mother, or fix something to wear?” Josephine’s gaze never wavered.

  “You’ve made your point. There’s no need to belabor it. But promise me this won’t become a habit, and that you’ll stop as soon as we can afford a seamstress.”

  “What if I don’t want to stop?”

  “Josephine!” She had never talked back to Eugenia this way before or even stated an opinion, much less argued with her.

  “I find it very satisfying to work with my hands, whether it’s sewing a dress or preparing soup or mixing biscuits. Much more satisfying than sitting around reading poetry all day or brushing my hair for one hundred strokes or practicing good posture with a book on my head.”

  “I believe you are trying to upset me on purpose.”

  “I’m not. But I’ve decided I’m not going to wait for a savior to come and rescue us. No one else in heaven or on earth is helping us, so I’ve decided to do it myself.”

  “Are you planning to become a cobbler, too?” she asked, gesturing to Josephine’s torn shoe.

  She pulled her feet out of sight, hiding them beneath the chair and the hem of her long skirt. “I would if I knew how,” she said with a smile.

  “Why are you
still wearing those terrible shoes? I thought I gave you a pair of my own to wear.”

  “They’re too small for me. My toes feel so pinched I can barely walk. I would never be able to dance in them.”

  Eugenia had chosen to purchase farm animals and cottonseed with the last of her money. There was none left for shoes. Would her daughters end up barefoot?

  “I’ll make my hems longer so no one can see my feet,” Josephine said. She resumed her sewing and a moment later pricked her finger with the needle. “Ouch!” She put her finger in her mouth to suck on it.

  Eugenia reached for Josephine’s hands, bending to inspect them. “Oh, look at these hands . . .” she said, her voice choking. The new needle prick sprouted a dot of bright blood, and she saw a partially healed cut on one hand that looked as though it had been deep. She had blisters on her palms, presumably from hoeing the garden, fingernails that were ragged and dirty, and skin as red and rough as a rooster’s comb. “What in the world were you doing at Priscilla’s house?”

  “Whatever was necessary.” Josephine pulled her hands free and hid them beneath the cloth on her lap.

  “Promise me that you won’t wash another dish or do any more work before my dance. Let your hands heal, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I’ll be wearing gloves, won’t I?”

  “That isn’t the point. Don’t frustrate me, Josephine. Besides, if I know you, you’ll have your gloves off within the first hour. . . . Let me see your hands, Mary.” She reached to inspect hers next, and while they weren’t red or chapped or blistered, Mary had continued the nervous habit of biting her nails and the skin around her fingertips. Both girls would need gloves for the dance, but every pair they owned was worn or stained or patched.

  “I promise I’ll stop biting them,” Mary said when Eugenia released her.

  “Thank you.”

  “As long as we’re speaking of work . . .” Josephine began.

  “What now?” Eugenia asked with a sigh. She needed to sit down. She looked around for the nearest chair and pulled it over beside the girls.

  “While I’ve been sitting here sewing, I’ve been looking out at this terrace and thinking what a shame it is that it has become so overgrown. Wouldn’t it be nice to get it all cleaned up for your dance so our guests can stroll outside?”

  “Don’t you dare! I mean it, Josephine, don’t even think about it! Oh, if I had money to spare I would pack you off to Richmond with Daniel on Monday and send you to finishing school.”

  “I’m not going to do the work, Mother. I thought we could ask Lizzie’s two boys to pull the weeds. They aren’t attending school anymore because someone tried to burn it down. You should have seen how upset Jack and Rufus were. They were just learning how to read.”

  “Slaves reading . . . who ever heard of such a thing?” Eugenia spoke without thinking. When she saw Josephine’s surprise, she softened her tone. “I’m sorry, but literate slaves were something everyone feared when I was a girl. The adults used to talk about it as if it was something very dangerous.”

  “Why?” Mary asked. She had her fingers near her mouth again, and Eugenia reached over to pull her hand down.

  “Because slaves who could read and write would use those skills to escape and to help others escape. Valuable property would be lost. They had to be severely punished, and so did anyone who dared to teach them.” Josephine looked at her accusingly—or was it Eugenia’s imagination? “I’m sorry, but you can’t expect me to shed all those biases overnight. The war just ended two months ago, for heaven’s sake.”

  “And those poor children only had a chance to attend school for a few weeks.”

  Eugenia looked away. She wished she had never overheard Daniel and his friends talking about closing down the school and breaking up the Negroes’ camp in the woods. David Hunter said that a man had been shot and killed. Would Daniel do such a thing? He and his friends had claimed to be defending their homes and families, but shooting people and setting the school on fire seemed more like the actions of outlaws. Her own servant had been injured for no reason that she could see. When Philip had been alive, Eugenia sometimes overheard rumors involving the slaves, but Philip had always assured her that she was better off not knowing. Now she understood why. A sudden breeze blew in through the open doors, and Eugenia pulled her shawl tighter, shivering.

  “The Negro school is none of our concern,” she said, turning back to her daughters, “and I don’t want to argue with you about it.” She had felt good all morning and hadn’t had the pain in her chest in days. “I agree with you about clearing the terrace, but we can’t order the little Negro boys to do it, can we? You’re always the first to remind me they aren’t our slaves anymore.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Jo said. “I decided I could offer to pay them by giving them some of my old schoolbooks. They were heartbroken when theirs burned up. So . . . would you like me to ask them to do the work?”

  “Ask them? They eat my food, they live on my property, and they don’t do any labor in return—”

  “They’re children, Mother. Of course they don’t do any labor.”

  “They used to in the old days.” Eugenia remembered seeing children like Lizzie’s young boys out in the cotton fields working alongside their parents. She exhaled. “The terrace would look much nicer without all the weeds. Yes, you may ask them, Josephine. Pay them however you’d like. Just don’t become overly friendly with them or allow them to get the upper hand.”

  “The upper hand?” Josephine repeated. “They’re children!”

  “And do not engage in any of the work yourself.”

  “Of course not. Thank you, Mother.” Josephine bent over her sewing to hide a smile. What else was she plotting?

  “I can hardly wait to go to your dance,” Mary said. “And I’m so happy I’ll be getting a new dress to wear . . . well, new for me.”

  “Do you want to help me sew?” Josephine asked her. “You know how, Mary. Your dress will be finished sooner if you do.”

  Eugenia was relieved when Mary shook her head. She was such a good girl, such a lovely girl. She was still much too quiet and fearful after everything she’d suffered, but perhaps the dance would help give her confidence.

  “Speaking of my dance, I’m inviting Aunt Olivia and Uncle Charles and their girls to come from Richmond and stay overnight with us. I thought you would enjoy spending time with your cousins again. Of course, that means the guest bedroom will have to be aired and made up. Remind me to speak with Lizzie about it. Or maybe Roselle can do it if someone supervises her. I’m so relieved we have her back as a house servant again, even if she is very young and inexperienced. You girls can share your bedroom with your cousins, can’t you? It will be so much fun to have guests again.”

  Mary sat forward in her chair, her eyes bright with excitement. “I hope I’ll have a chance to dance that night. Do you think any of the gentlemen you’re inviting will want to dance with me?”

  “Certainly! You’re a very beautiful young lady, you know. Daniel’s friend Joseph Gray seemed quite taken with you the last time he was here.”

  “But he’s Daniel’s age, and I’m Daniel’s little sister. Won’t he think I’m too young?”

  “Not at all. I was your age when I began attending balls and parties. My mother would invite every eligible bachelor in Richmond so that Olivia and I could meet potential suitors and be seen by their families. I loved every minute of it.”

  Should she talk to her daughters about the fine art of flirting? Teach them how to be vivacious and intriguing to men? It had come so naturally to Eugenia that it had seemed like part of her personality, but she was aware her girls, as shy and nervous as baby mice, were not at all like her. They had grown up with too much fear and sorrow and uncertainty.

  “The whole process of courting seems so artificial,” Josephine said. “You mix young people together at parties and balls and expect them to make suitable matches? The idea makes me shudder.” She
bent her head to continue sewing.

  “It isn’t artificial at all! How else will you ever meet suitors if someone doesn’t take the initiative to arrange it?”

  “Is that how you met Daddy?” Mary asked. “At a dance?”

  “Yes. I lived in Richmond, as you know, but distance was no obstacle for Philip. We had attended several of the same events together, so I knew who he was, but I had another serious suitor at the time. Then Philip’s parents invited me here to a ball in this very drawing room. My sister, Olivia, came, too. The bedrooms were filled with out-of-town guests.”

  “I remember how they used to be before the war,” Mary said. “I loved watching the ladies getting dressed in all their finery—like princesses. And I loved to watch the couples dancing.”

  “Your father was a wonderful dancer, and at his parents’ ball that night he danced with me all evening. He wouldn’t let anyone else have so much as a waltz with me. We talked and talked, not about meaningless things as I had been trained to do, or merely exchanging flatteries, but thoughtful conversation. He was so different from all the other men I knew. He treated me as . . . as his friend, which was unheard of, of course.” Eugenia smiled as she let her thoughts drift back to that evening.

  “I remember the lavish dinner your grandmother served, the dining room table set for dozens of people. That’s how it was done in the old days. You always had a dinner with a ball. Philip switched the place cards so that I would be seated right beside him. Again, that was unheard of. The seating arrangement had been composed with care, and Philip’s mother was very piqued with him. But no one could stay angry at Philip for long. You know how charming he was. He set the standard for Southern manners as if he had invented the word gentleman.”

  She paused to control a sudden rush of grief and looked out at the once-lovely terrace. Weeds filled the cracks between the paving stones, growing so high and thick that the stones were barely visible. Tall pillars along one side of the square had supported a lattice roof and wisteria vines, but the vines were densely overgrown and matted with dead branches. She remembered how the blossoms would fill the terrace with their sweet fragrance. The stone benches where people used to sit between waltzes were too filthy to sit on now, and the low railing around the perimeter of the square needed a coat of whitewash. Remembering how it had looked on that long-ago night brought tears to Eugenia’s eyes. She turned back to her daughters. “Your father asked me to marry him that night.”