by Lisa Klein
Supper was not the awkward meal I had expected after all. Mama got out the best linen and fixed extra ham and beans. There was plenty to eat, with fresh plums, cake, and cream for dessert. Everyone was talking, so I didn’t have to make conversation with Martin. From time to time I stole a glance at Amos’s wife, who sat next to him and spoke to no one. I wondered if she had ever eaten at a table with white folks before.
Of course we were all eager to hear about the trip, and finally Mr. Hartmann obliged us.
“It were quite an adventure, all right,” he said, putting down his fork and wiping his mouth on one of Mama’s linen napkins. “We spent two weeks running from a sheriff’s posse that thought Amos was a runaway they’d been searching for. One night they chased us into a swamp where I thought the mosquitoes would kill us if the sheriff’s men didn’t do it first.”
“We had to lie low for a while,” added Amos. “Then another time, some deserters tried to rob us an’ my horse was shot in the shoulder. I was ‘fraid she was goin’ to be lame, but she healed after a number of days. That slowed us some.”
“Did you shoot anyone?” asked Ben. He had insisted on sitting next to Amos and giving him the largest piece of cake.
I saw Grace’s eyes dart between Amos and Mr. Hartmann.
“Let’s jus’ say the villains got the worst of our encounters,” said Amos. He took Grace’s hand beneath the table.
Mr. Hartmann said the dangers had been greater than he imagined, but instead of expecting more money for his troubles, he made Amos and Grace the gift of a fine bed he had purchased on the way. Mama had them bring it inside, a clear sign that she expected Amos and his wife to live with us for the time being. Then she told Ben to drive Martin home in the cart, stay overnight, and come home in the morning. My brother seemed pleased at being given the responsibility of driving all the way down Taneytown Road and back.
Martin had said nothing all evening, aside from thanking Mama for the food. I had almost forgotten about his injured foot, and watching him hobble to the door, I felt guilty.
“I’m sorry about your foot,” I said. “Does it still hurt?”
“Not as bad as you’ll be hurting if you apologize again,” he said with a smile that made his grayish eyes twinkle. Why, his plain face looked almost handsome!
Lizzie
Chapter 16
Summer ended early that year, the leaves on the trees turning yellow green and brittle even while gardens put forth corn and tomatoes and the cicadas persisted with their wild racket. Rosanna wrote a second letter, one filled with such sadness that I almost forgot my resentment. She also set me a task that brought some brief danger and excitement to my life: I had to find her scrapbook.
August 21, 1862
Dear Lizzie,
I am so lonely. John has gone with his regiment, and I don’t know when I shall see him again! Surely you understand, with your own father and brother away. Does the emptiness ever fill up?
Lizzie, I hope this letter reaches you despite the blockade. I miss you and hope that you have forgiven me by now. I never meant for you to come to any trouble because of me. You of all people must know how weak and selfish I am, and that I cannot always help my passions. I have had a letter from Margaret, who remains unforgiving. Her accusations seem to me very unjust. Does she begrudge me my husband? Why can we not wish one another the same happiness? You, too, Lizzie, will find love soon enough.
I beg you to perform a favor for me as soon as you receive this letter. I trust only you to do this: find my scrapbook, which I hid beneath the bureau! As you know, it contains John’s letters, pictures, and mementos, all of which now are inexpressibly valuable to me. You must find it before Margaret does—if she hasn’t already found it and destroyed my trea sures out of spite, and spilled all my secrets.
Please, keep it safe, and return it one day to your sad yet devoted cousin and friend,
Rosanna (Mrs. John) Wilcox
P.S. What ever you read or assume to the contrary, know that my husband is a man of honor.
At this my curiosity overcame my hurt feelings. I could hardly keep from running to Margaret’s house at once and turning Rosanna’s room upside down. What secrets did the scrapbook contain? Somehow I had to search Rosanna’s room without rousing her sister’s suspicion, then remove the book without being seen. But what if Margaret had already found it?
The next morning, I went to Margaret’s house on the pretext of recovering a blue shawl that I had loaned to Rosanna. In fact, I had brought it with me, hidden under my skirt.
“I have packed away all her clothes and I don’t remember seeing that shawl,” said Margaret with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But go upstairs and look.”
That easily I gained entry to Rosanna’s room. I peered beneath the bureau but saw only dust. Inside, it was empty except for some linens. A trunk stood against the wall. I opened it and saw Rosanna’s clothes, a few books, and hair brushes. The scent of lavender mingled with that of old wood, making me miss my cousin. I searched to the bottom but there was no scrapbook. Had she hidden it elsewhere? I lifted the bedding and searched for an opening where she could have slipped it inside the mattress. Nothing. I went back to the bureau and rummaged through the linens again. Facedown on the floor, I stretched my arm underneath and felt around until my fingers caught on a satiny ribbon. The scrapbook was wedged between the struts on the base of the cabinet. By wiggling it back and forth, I finally freed it and sat back on my haunches with a groan, the book on my lap.
“What are you doing?”
I whirled around to see Clara in the doorway, regarding me with suspicion.
“You messed up the bed, Lizzie. Is that Rosie’s book?”
“No, it’s mine. I left it here. Go play now.”
But she just stood there, frowning at me.
“Lizzie, did you find it?” called Margaret from the foot of the stairs, startling me. I tugged my shawl from under my skirts and laid it over the scrapbook.
“Yes, it was beneath the coverlet, of all places,” I replied, then whispered to Clara, “Help me smooth out the bed.” I winked at her, hoping she would enjoy keeping a secret. Then I hurried down the stairs and past Margaret, making sure she saw the blue shawl but not the scrapbook beneath it. I said I could not stay and visit, for Mama needed me at home.
For two days Rosanna’s scrapbook lay underneath my mattress while I debated whether or not to read the letters. Finally I decided that Rosanna had granted me permission: Whatever you read … know that my husband is a man of honor. I waited until night, when I could read without being disturbed. I opened the scrapbook, and Rosanna’s scent drifted up from the pages. Tears came to my eyes. On the page before me was my own picture, a lock of my hair, and, in Rosanna’s slanted handwriting, several quotations on friendship. I didn’t pause to read them, but blinked until my eyes were clear and turned the page. There they were: the hidden letters from John Wilcox, mixed with copies of letters in Rosanna’s hand. I turned up the flame on the lamp and began to read.
March 13, 1860
Dear Rosanna,
Forgive my impetuous behavior at the party. Never having met a girl of your lively beauty, I let myself be carried away by your charms. I do not think we were seen there in the garden. Will you let me kiss you again if I promise to stray no farther than the creamy skin of your wrists and neck? You know I have the greatest regard for your virtue.
Yours, John Wilcox
March 15, 1860
John: You cannot regard my virtue so highly as you claim. Indeed your flatteries strike me as excuses for your passion to run wild. Do you think that “I love you” should act upon me like a key in a lock? And then to pry the latch against my protests! I regret the very little encouragement I gave you. It was too much.
Rosanna McGreevey
March 19, 1860
You are the one who holds the key
To my heart, which you turn against me.
I deserve your unbending cruelty, but I
Promise to reform if only you will love me.
Dash it, Rosanna, I am no poet, but if the lines are not suitable, perhaps the roses will persuade you to see me again. Humbly, John
May 20, 1860
Dear Rosanna,
I don’t blame you for calling me a cad and a bounder. I had meant to meet you but Hiram and the fellows wouldn’t let me leave and before I knew it I had not a dollar in my pockets and couldn’t find my way to the door, they had put so much whiskey down my throat. Won’t you give me another chance? Sneak out into the churchyard while every one is singing the opening hymn. I will be there “praying “ for your mercy.
John
June 5, 1860
Oh John, I fear I am losing my heart to you! I still can’t believe that you prefer me over all the other Richmond girls, some of whom are far prettier. I want nothing more than to be in your company, which makes me giddy with delight. Even your faults attract me. We are alike, for we relish taking chances. What fun to have a secret romance that Mother and Father don’t suspect!
I trea sure your photograph, which I kiss every night, that I may dream of you while I sleep. Here is a lock of my hair, tied with silk, to keep under your pillow.
—Oh dear, I blush to write this foolishness; I cannot possibly send it—
August 15, 1860
My dear Rose,
I am in narrow, not to say dire, straits, having incurred an incon ve niently large debt. Cannot go to my father as we have had a row about my immoderate ways. I am willing to be temperate in all things except loving you, Rosanna! Could you persuade your father to give you money for some expensive trifle—say a new carriage or ball gown—then give it to me on the side? If so I vow to turn over a new leaf.
Yours most affectionately, John
August 23, 1860
Dear Rosanna,
Oh, everything be damned ! It was wrong of me to make that request of you and now I shall live to regret it. Why did you take such a risk for one so unworthy ? I am deeply ashamed. I will not gamble again. I never imagined it would break us apart. Such rotten luck, that your parents came in at that moment and mistook the scene so completely. No wonder they concluded that you were seduced and ruined. It was indeed a shameful exchange, but it was not lust. What choice did I have but to take the money you thrust upon me? I’ve settled my debt, but at the cost of our love!
I beg you to explain everything to your father so that we may be re united. Tell me, why did you do it? Don’t keep me in darkness.
Yours truly and sorrowfully,
John
September 10, 1860
Dear John,
It is too late. Mother and Father are sending me to live with my sister in Pennsylvania. I am forbidden even to speak of you. How would it help matters between us for me to confess to the theft? In my parents’ eyes, my reputation is already ruined. I am certain they despise me and wish never to lay eyes on me again.
I don’t know what came over me in Father’s bank. It was the sight of the open till, Father’s back turned, the pile of unguarded bills. Oh, it was the thought of your disgrace as a result of debt. I know you were tricked into that horrid betting game with no idea of the stakes. I wanted to help you. I thought this would show my love for you.
I gave no thought to the consequence of indulging such an impulse. Now I must live without my parents’ respect and your love. All I have is the guilt of the crime itself.
I am unworthy of love. You must put me out of your thoughts.
Regretfully no longer yours,
Rosanna McGreevey
September 29, 1860
Dearest Rosanna,
Do not despair of our love. The greater part of the blame ought to be mine. I wrongly took advantage of your affection for me. Can you forgive me? Please come back and I vow to prove myself more worthy of your love.
Yours despite everything,
John Wilcox
With shaking fingers, I put the letter back in its envelope. There were more letters from John Wilcox, but I didn’t want to read them. I wished I had never opened the scrapbook. Now I knew my cousin’s secrets, and they burned inside me like bad cider. Two years ago, Rosanna had fallen for a gambler and had allowed him to take advantage of her. She had stolen money to pay his debts. Now, unbelievably, she was married to him.
I could not see John Wilcox as a man of honor, as Rosanna had pleaded. Indeed I believed him to be a preying fox. But he had not forced Rosanna to steal the money from her father’s bank. How could she have committed such a deed and hidden it from everyone? She had been young, but that didn’t excuse her either. Why had she told me none of her secrets? Rosanna had been my best friend, but I had hardly known her. She had hidden her truest self from me. All along she was bound by passion and wrongdoing to John Wilcox.
I turned back to the page that held my photograph and read the quotations Rosanna had copied there:
“Friendship is the finest balm for the
pang of disappointed love.”
—Jane Austen
“If I do vow a friendship,
I’ll perform it to the last article.”
—Shakespeare
“The only danger in friendship
is that it will end.”
—Thoreau
Fighting back tears, I removed my picture, closed the scrapbook, and tied the ribbons securely. Lighting my way with a lamp, I carried the book to the cellar. I wrapped the scrapbook in an old oilcloth to keep out the dampness, and stowed it beneath the shelves bearing the preserved bounty of summer, next to the dirt floor like the marker of a grave.
Rosanna
Chapter 17
My History During the War
August 25, 1862 Richmond
Until John returns, the prospect of loneliness lies before me. When I expressed my sadness to Mother, she remarked tartly, “Perhaps you should not have been so hasty to get married, but waited until after the war.” Why did I think she would be a comfort to me? It is clear she still disapproves of John.
I wrote to Lizzie asking her to recover my scrapbook. Soon she will have read the letters and will possess the full truth about her wayward cousin. But she has promised always to love me, and I trust in the goodness of her innocent heart, so unlike my own.
In my mind I relive that fateful scene in the drawing room. I have taken the money from my bodice, leaving the buttons carelessly undone.
“What have you done?” John says in horror, seeing the money in my hand.
“Take it. I did it for you. You begged me,” I cry.
The locked door rattles and Father calls out in alarm, “Rosanna! Open the door.”
We stare at the money between us, and in desperation John thrusts it into his pockets just as Father breaks the lock and bursts into the room with Mother behind him. My disheveled appearance and tearstained face, John’s fumblings, and our guilty looks condemn us utterly.
“It is not what it seems,” I plead.
“It is bad enough,” Father growls, glaring at John, who is silent with mortification. “Leave!” he orders him.
John pauses at the door to say, “I love your daughter, but I do not deserve her,” then disappears from my life for two years.
Now he is gone again, after pledging his love, and the tormenting memory revisits me. Have I made a mistake in marrying John? I lie awake fearing that he will die and leave me like this: full of doubts and regret at our past misdeeds, which still are unresolved.
August 26, 1862
In the light of day, last night’s dire thoughts appear foolish and overwrought. Any day I expect a letter from John, full of loving reassurances. I have been sleeping with his dressing gown near my pillow. I will not wash it until he comes home, for the scent that lingers there comforts me.
August 27, 1862
Today I went shopping for house hold items but returned empty-handed. I could not even buy a new pot, for all the iron is being made into cannonballs.
I must find a w
ay to occupy myself until John returns. Some women have taken up nursing in the Richmond hospitals, though not the better sort of ladies, as Mother fancies we are. And why should I feed and bandage some strange man when I have a husband whom I would gladly care for? But he is at war, and his valet, Tom, sews his torn clothing, launders his socks, and makes his porridge, while his wife sits idly at home, longing to perform such mundane tasks.
August 28, 1862
We live in a time of rare wonders indeed. My own mother, who has always maintained that no lady should ever seek paid employment, now has a position in the Confederate treasury department. On account of rising prices, the government prints thousands of bank-notes a day, and someone must cut and sign all those new notes. Mother’s elegant handwriting and her friendship with Mrs. Davis helped her to the position. She says this is her contribution to “the cause.”
Mrs. Sullivan invited Mother and me to tea and we went despite the stultifying heat. She served us real butter and sugar cakes, while relating how she had had to whip her slaves for taking food from the larder to feed themselves. She threatened to sell the poor Negro girl who served us if she did not remedy her manners. This only made matters worse, and the slave spilled some tea. Mrs. Sullivan’s treatment of her infuriated me, but I dared not say anything. I blotted the spilled tea with a napkin and smiled consolingly at the poor girl. She did not smile back at me, but I think her dark eyes showed gratitude. Perhaps I will become an abolitionist and bestir myself from this lazy, pointless existence.
August 29, 1862
An accident has befallen my husband! Yet because of it, a course of action has been shown to me, and my dull spirits sparked with anticipation.
John’s Negro valet arrived yesterday with the report that John had been injured—a blow to the head that left him unconscious for a full day. Unable to march on with the regiment, he remained behind at a hospital, from which he sent Tom Banks to beg me to come and care for him.
