Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray
Page 1
ACCLAIM FOR DOROTHY LOVE
“Dorothy Love has a gift for weaving ordinary stories into remarkable books. I enjoyed her vivid descriptions and the well-written narrative of her latest novel, Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray. Most of all, I loved how Mrs. Love was able to make each of the novel’s heroines completely relatable. By the time I finished the book, I felt I had made two new friends.”
—SHELLEY SHEPARD GRAY, NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“This novel, Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray, fills in an important missing piece of our shared history. It explores the complicated personal bonds that develop, even in morally complicated situations.”
—LAILA IBRAHIM, AUTHOR OF YELLOW CROCUS
“Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray is a beautiful and haunting story of friendship, family, war, and the common threads of love and loyalty that weave through them all. Full of historical details and wise insight into the complexities of one of the United States’ most trying times, this is a profoundly important book that I know will stay with readers long, long after the last page—just as it has for me.”
—KRISTY WOODSON HARVEY, AUTHOR OF DEAR CAROLINA AND LIES AND OTHER ACTS OF LOVE
“This excellently researched and readable novel faithfully depicts an era of contrasts with two very different narratives. Two women, two lives, intertwined but ever separate, provide a compelling portrait. Freedom and slavery. Sadness and hope. Biographical fiction at its best.”
—PAMELA MORSI, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR, ON MRS. LEE AND MRS. GRAY
“A great historical romance with a Gothic vibe that also has mystery and murder. Characters are well thought out; some are hiding secrets and will do whatever they must to keep those secrets, and some characters will do what they must to get closer to the truth. Love has outdone herself in this latest book, creating a unique novel that readers are sure to treasure forever.”
—ROMANTIC TIMES, 41/2 STARRED REVIEW AND TOP PICK! FOR A RESPECTABLE ACTRESS
“Dorothy Love writes with such rhythm and grace. Her attention to historical detail creates the perfect setting for characters we swiftly grow to love and cheer for. The Bracelet is a jewel of a story.”
—TAMERA ALEXANDER, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF TO WHISPER HER NAME AND A LASTING IMPRESSION
“The Bracelet by Dorothy Love was a fascinating and exciting antebellum novel that kept me flipping pages way into the night. I loved the insight into events that triggered the war, and Love’s writing is beautiful and evocative. Highly recommended!”
—COLLEEN COBLE, AUTHOR OF SEAGRASS PIER AND THE HOPE BEACH SERIES
“The Bracelet is the perfect blend of mystery, history, and the quest for love and truth. A great read for not only lovers of period fiction, but for anyone who hungers for a well-told story.”
—SUSAN MEISSNER, AUTHOR OF A FALL OF MARIGOLDS
“With a country on the brink of war and her own future uncertain, Celia Browning’s faith will be tested and her very life put in jeopardy by the mystery of the bracelet. In a novel inspired by actual events, Dorothy Love artfully recreates the lavish world of power and prestige in 1850s Savannah with unforgettable characters and the attention to historical detail her readers have come to expect. Vivid and entrancing . . . I was swept away!”
—KRISTY CAMBRON, AUTHOR OF THE BUTTERFLY AND THE VIOLIN AND A SPARROW IN TEREZIN, ON THE BRACELET
“Subtle and suspenseful with exquisite descriptions of antebellum Savannah, Georgia, and a tender love story to boot, Dorothy Love’s The Bracelet takes the reader on a chilling journey into the mysteries surrounding one of Savannah’s most prominent families during the days before the Civil War. Love’s careful research and poignant prose provide a story that will delight fans of historical fiction.”
—ELIZABETH MUSSER, AUTHOR OF THE SWAN HOUSE, THE SWEETEST THING, AND THE SECRETS OF THE CROSS TRILOGY
“Vivid and romantic . . . recommended for fans of Gone with the Wind.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL ON CAROLINA GOLD
“Beautifully portrays an independent Southern woman . . . Pitch perfect . . . A memorable book.”
—HISTORICAL NOVELS REVIEW ON CAROLINA GOLD
“A beautifully written Southern historical that should appeal equally to Christian and secular readers alike.”
—READING THE PAST ON CAROLINA GOLD
“Every Perfect Gift is certainly a gift to readers.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Romance and a strong sense of place recommend Love’s delightful Southern-flavored historical.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL ON EVERY PERFECT GIFT
“Romance, mystery, and intrigue . . . Love gives readers even more than they expect . . .”
—ROMANTIC TIMES ON EVERY PERFECT GIFT
“Love’s amazing historical has all the elements readers expect . . . romance, mystery, and characters who want more out of their lives.”
—ROMANTIC TIMES ON BEAUTY FOR ASHES
“With well-drawn characters and just enough suspense to keep the pages turning, this winning debut will be a hit . . .”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW OF BEYOND ALL MEASURE
OTHER BOOKS BY DOROTHY LOVE
A Respectable Actress
The Bracelet
A Proper Marriage (e-novella only)
Carolina Gold
THE HICKORY RIDGE NOVELS
Beyond All Measure
Beauty for Ashes
Every Perfect Gift
Copyright © 2016 by Dorothy Love
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-718-04243-1 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Love, Dorothy, 1949- author.
Title: Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray : a novel / Dorothy Love.
Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Thomas Nelson, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016000399 | ISBN 9780718042448 (softcover) Subjects: LCSH: Lee, Mary Randolph Custis, 1807-1873--Fiction. | African American women--Fiction. | Slaves--United States--Fiction. | Female friendship--Fiction. | United States--History--19th century--Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction. | Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3562.O8387 M77 2016 | DDC 813/.54--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016000399
16 17 18 19 20 21 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Mary and Selina. You are not forgotten.
CONTENTS
1. MARY CUSTIS LEE
2. MARY
3. SELINA NORRIS GRAY
4. MARY
5. SELINA
6. MARY
7. SELINA
8. MARY
9. SELINA
10. MARY
11. MARY
12. SELINA
13. MARY
14. SELINA
15. MARY
16. SELINA
17. MARY
18. SELINA
19. MARY
20
. SELINA
21. MARY
22. SELINA
23. MARY
24. SELINA
25. MARY
26. SELINA
27. MARY
28. SELINA
29. MARY
30. MARY
31. SELINA
32. MARY
33. SELINA
34. MARY
35. SELINA
36. MARY
37. MARY
38. SELINA
39. MARY
40. MARY
41. MARY
42. SELINA
AUTHOR’S NOTE
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
True friendship is a plant of slow growth and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
1 | MARY CUSTIS LEE
1873
There was a time when Arlington was a magical place, enchanted and inviolate, the place where all that was beautiful in my world began.
I grew up amid its thousand acres of rolling green hills and pleasant shades, my hands stained with the rust-brown soil of Virginia and branded by the oil of roses from hot summer days working in the gardens with my mother.
A great-granddaughter of Martha Washington, I learned reverence for my family’s storied history as soon as I could talk. By the age of eight, I could recite the particulars of the Battle of Trenton and recount details of the bitter winter at Valley Forge. By twelve, I had committed to memory substantial portions of General Washington’s writings, and I delighted in showing off my knowledge to the constant stream of politicians, poets, and artists who arrived by carriage or boat or horseback to dine at my father’s table. A man of wide interests and legendary hospitality, he enjoyed entertaining the obscure and the famous in equal measure, so long as they were interesting. By the age of seventeen, I had broken bread with horse traders, newspapermen, soldiers, and tobacco farmers—and with such public figures as Sam Houston, Washington Irving, and Lafayette.
After my daily lessons in French, Greek, and Latin, I was free to plunder my father’s studio, a thrilling and amusing hodgepodge of books, maps, mementos, and half-finished paintings and plays. I spent hours poring over his volumes of botany, history, and poetry while General Washington kept watch from his portrait above the fireplace mantel. On rainy afternoons I sprawled on the floor with paints and canvas, making sketches of flowers and people and the cats that roamed the house.
My father, George Washington Parke Custis, inherited a number of slaves from his father’s estate, sixty of whom lived at Arlington in quarters that stretched from the backyard and along the river to the fields of corn and winter wheat. I knew each of them by name, and they would pause in their various occupations to exchange a greeting whenever I happened by. I spent hours on horseback roaming the silent loveliness of the woods and fields, which were full of foxes, rabbits, and deer. I waded in the cold streams that meandered through dense thickets. I captured butterflies and studied the beetles inching their way along the forest floor. When I grew tired I stopped to rest at our little chapel nestled in a grove of trees. Even now, it is pleasant to recall the sound of voices lifted in song that lingered in the evening air like a benediction.
How long ago it seems. How innocent I was of the ways in which life could wind. I couldn’t have imagined that one day this dear old house, the scene of so many happy hours, would be stolen from me, trampled by a lawless foe, never again to shelter me and mine.
2 | MARY
1827
The forty-mile journey from Arlington to the home of my mother’s cousins in Fauquier consumed an entire day. My mother usually accompanied me on visits to her cousin Thomas Turner’s family, but she was fighting a cough that spring. I was nineteen, old enough to make the trip without her, so it was Eleanor, affectionately called Old Nurse because she had looked after Papa and then me from our earliest childhoods, who sat with me in the carriage, her sewing on her lap, our lunch basket at her feet.
We left Arlington before sunrise, crossing the dark river that shimmered beneath a waxing moon, meandering eastward past the sleeping farms of Fairfax and Chantilly before turning north to Kinloch, every mile punctuated by Eleanor’s complaints about the bumpy ride, her aching bones, and the gathering heat. It was quite a relief when through the deepening twilight the house came into view.
Though the Turner place was not to my eye as lovely as Arlington, it was pleasantly situated on a rise that afforded a view of meadows that in spring were thick with wildflowers, and beyond, acres of rich green fields that spread out in all directions.
My cousins spilled from the house to greet me. Old Nurse climbed stiffly from the carriage and trailed me up the steps and onto the porch while Daniel began unloading my trunks.
“Mary Anna.” Cousin Elizabeth, Thomas’s wife, squeezed my hands. “Welcome, child. We’ve missed you.”
I kissed her cheek. “Mother sends her love. She said to tell you she hopes to come out later on, when she feels better.”
Thomas, tall and spare, consulted his watch. “It’s nearly seven. You must be famished by now.”
Caroline, who had recently turned eight years old, said, “Papa, we are all famished.” She turned her dark eyes on me. “We have been waiting forever, Mary. We thought you would never get here.”
“It was a long trip.” I smiled and embraced my frank young cousin. “Goodness, you’ve grown so much since last summer.”
“I know it. Almost two inches.”
“Mary!” Eliza, two years younger than Caroline, launched herself into my arms. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“No, you have to guess.”
“Well, you must give me some clue.”
“We have a new animal in the barn. Guess what it is.”
“A kitten?”
“Bigger.”
“A puppy?”
“Bigger.”
“Bigger than a puppy? Let’s see. Do you have an elephant hiding in your barn, Eliza Turner?”
She giggled. “It’s a foal. Papa says he’s a real beauty and I get to name him.”
I set her on her feet and we all went inside. Daniel carried my trunks up to my usual room. Old Nurse went with him to unpack my dresses.
Elizabeth herded us to the table and rang for Wilhelmina, who had presided over Kinloch’s dining room for as long as I could remember, and supper was served.
After asking for the news from home, Thomas described a series of agricultural talks he had heard at last year’s lyceum in Massachusetts. Elizabeth asked after Mother and Papa. Caroline and Eliza finally nodded off and were taken up to bed by their nurse. The boys, Edward and Henry, badgered their father to continue his reading of The Last of the Mohicans.
“I’m afraid my sons have nothing but Indians on their minds these days,” Elizabeth said when Wilhelmina had removed the last of the dishes.
“It’s the best book there ever was,” Edward said. At eleven years old, he was the younger of the two boys and, like his father, tall and thin, with a shock of brown hair and lively eyes. “Have you read it, Cousin Mary?”
“I have not. But you can tell me about it later, when I am not so sleepy. Right now I don’t think I can stay awake for another minute.”
“Go on up to bed, Mary,” Elizabeth said. “Let me know if there is anything you need.”
Old Nurse had prepared my bed and taken out my nightdress and hairbrush before retiring to the little alcove off my bedroom. I washed my face and hands, brushed my hair, and climbed into bed, where I slept like the dead until the crowing of the rooster woke me at sunrise. Old Nurse was still asleep.
I dressed quietly and went downstairs. No one was stirring except Thomas, who was in his library surrounded by crates of books.
“Mary. There you are.” He picked up a book, glanced at it, and set it aside. “The bo
ys are off somewhere, and Elizabeth has taken the girls down to the stables to see the new foal. They shouldn’t be long. Are you hungry?”
“Not a bit. I ate too much at supper last night.”
He nodded in that quiet way of his and poked through another crate.
I looked over his shoulder. “A new shipment of books?”
“Just the opposite, I’m afraid. The shelves are overflowing, and I need to make room for newer works. Some of these are headed for the trash heap, sorry to say.”
“Oh, may I have them?”
He looked up, surprised. “I suppose so. But I don’t think you will find much that interests you. Elizabeth tells me you and your mother are very fond of novels.”
“Yes, but there might be something I can use for my schoolroom.”
He frowned. “So the two of you are still teaching your servants to read?”
I ignored the disapproval in his eyes. “We are. I have seven pupils at present, five girls and two boys.” I peered into the crates. “Maybe there is something in here to hold their attention. The girls are very keen to master their lessons, but the boys are harder to impress.”
“A dangerous business, educating slaves when nothing good can come of it.” He set down the book he was holding, a large volume bound in mustard-yellow leather. “The more they know, the more discontented they become.”
“Papa says the same thing, but then he admits that slavery will end one day. Maybe sooner than we think. Mother and I want the children of Arlington to be prepared for it.”
He nodded, tight-lipped. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
I rolled up my sleeves and poked through the crates. Most of the books were boring tomes: instruction on agricultural practices, collections of sermons, political treatises. Some were so moldered they fell apart in my hands. Some were missing pages. I was about to give up on finding anything useful when I opened a thick book bound in red leather and found beautiful illustrations of flowers and wildlife. Another book contained poems for children, and a third was a book about sailing ships. These three I set aside for my schoolroom.
I was looking through another crate in search of more treasures when I heard the sound of a horse approaching. I looked out the window, then quickly brushed the dust from my skirt and ran out to the porch just as the rider dismounted and handed his reins to the stable boy.