Miss Amelia yawned behind her hand and smiled. “Thank you.” An awkward silence was broken with her question of Miss Veronica’s origination.
“Oh, I came from down in South Carolina, dear. My mother sent me here after the bombin’ of Fort Sumter. Oh! —and my father’s death.”
“I’m sorry,” Miss Amelia mumbled, surprised that Miss Veronica possessed no warmth to her father’s death. Her own father’s death had warranted months of not speaking to anyone.
Miss Veronica, who watched the Richmond scene through the parlor window, smiled at Miss Amelia’s notice of her lack of sorrow. “I was not much close to him. Anyway, it’s been five years.”
“It isn’t my place to be judgin’ you so quickly.” At this rate, Miss Amelia expected she would not enjoy her stay. Her roommate simply would not open up, and she tired of this inane conversation. Where was Mrs. Beaumont with the keys to their room? “You must excuse my stumbles in conversation, Miss Veronica. I am weary of travelin’, and I simply have no energy to carry a proper tête-à-tête.”
“I assure you, Miss Amelia, that you are the epitome of proper discussion.”
“Is there really any reason why we must continue these meaningless pleasantries? We are to be roommates—therefore we are to learn of each other’s faults. Let us admit, here and now, that when tired we cannot carry a conversation.” Miss Amelia expectantly held out her hand, her face contrasting the sudden energy that flew to her gaze.
Laughing, Miss Veronica gladly shook it. “My dear, I shall enjoy havin’ your company late at night when we are in a silly mood. That shall be conversation worth listenin’ to.”
Mrs. Beaumont leaned from the parlor doors with a smile. She was exceedingly glad that the two girls seemed to get along: it would leave more room for prospective tenants. Turning to see Maum Jo shuffling from the kitchen, she asked, “Where has the lemonade gone?”
“I’se made dinner for them,” Maum Jo explained.
“For once, Maum Jo, you’ve done somethin’ right!” Mrs. Beaumont beamed. Pausing as her slave dumbly stood before her, she waved her hand to the parlor and said, “Well, go on. We don’t want our charges starvin’, now do we?”
Maum Jo opened the parlor door and curtseyed, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Yes?” Miss Amelia smiled.
“If the ladies don’t mind, I’se made a dinner for y’all.”
Miss Veronica hesitated at Miss Amelia’s familiarity. Such conduct was not allowed down south, and she had not seen such behavior outside her own peculiarities—as Nan called them. “Where did you hail from, Miss Amelia?” she asked, eyeing Maum Jo’s hunched form.
“I came from D.C.,” Miss Amelia said, dismissing Maum Jo from the room.
“You’re nothin’ but a Yankee!” Miss Veronica cried, recoiling in fraudulent alarm. She was, of course, surprised that Miss Amelia so willingly admitted to being a Yankee. For all she knew, Yankees were monstrous creatures with drooping limbs and gnashing teeth. Miss Amelia certainly did not fit that stereotype.
“I am not a Yankee! I was born here, in Richmond, thank you very much!”
Miss Veronica laughingly regained her composure. Extending her hand, she wondered whether Miss Amelia’s eyes always sparkled when indignant, feeling Miss Amelia was rather pretty when in such a state. “I’m sorry, Miss Amelia.” Pausing as Miss Amelia frowned, refusing to accept, she continued, “I do believe I let my hot temperament get the better of me.”
Miss Amelia tolerantly smiled.
“When I was in Charleston, and the bombin’ began on Sumter, I became ever so frightened. If the Yankees had left when South Carolina asked, the bombin’ never would have had to happen. I suppose leavin’ so soon after the event wasn’t such a bright idea—my mind is still a little skewed, I believe. I do not really hate Yanks, you know. I have a couple estranged relatives who are Yankees.”
Miss Amelia amended her cool countenance by smiling. What silly people, these southerners had become. Whatever had happened to the sensible southerners of her youth? She was pleased to find that Miss Veronica mirrored her own expression, as she sighed, “I wish Mrs. Beaumont would let us to our room.”
As if on cue, Mrs. Beaumont flounced into the parlor, hoops swaying. “Maum Jo and I have prepared the room, so if you-all would like to go up, I’d be glad to show you. We have some right nice rooms and I’m so excited to…” The ladies jumped from their seats, crying they would very much like that. Mrs. Beaumont stepped back in slight surprise. She had not expected such an enthusiastic reply. “Well, follow me,” she said, waiting as the two ladies placed their gloves inside their valises. She led them up the stairs and down the hall, passing doors on each side.
“Why are we not in the front rooms, Mrs. Beaumont?” Miss Amelia asked, shifting her valise to her other hand.
Mrs. Beaumont paused, looked at a door, and nodded. “This will be your room. Now don’t forget, it’s fourth on the right,” she said, searching for the proper key. “I do hope you like this room; I moved my vanity to your room so you both would have one for yourself. I wasn’t sure if you-all are the more vain type or not, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep it simple and just let you each have your own vanity. Maum Jo, be quick about dinner, all right? We don’t want our charges starvin,” Mrs. Beaumont smiled at Miss Veronica and wrestled with the bedroom’s lock.
Miss Veronica glanced at Miss Amelia, who reddened with embarrassment. Clearing her throat, she ventured, “Mrs. B?”
“Yes, dear?” Mrs. Beaumont opened the lock with an exclamation, triumphantly stepping into the room. It had been a silly idea to lock it in the first place, she reasoned, for there was no one in the house to steal from: she owned everything.
Taking her cue from Miss Veronica, Miss Amelia wearily repeated, “Why are we not in the front rooms?”
“Those are the men’s rooms, dear. I still have a hard time throwin’ out some of the stuff they left. What if I get word one of my boys died?”
“But, we haven’t had a true battle yet,” Miss Amelia protested, walking into the bedroom. “No one was killed at Sumter. A miracle if you ask me. Seems to me as though the boys just wanted to show off their guns.” When Mrs. Beaumont quizzically regarded her, she feared perhaps she had been too vocal. It certainly would not do to insult the only person willing to house her in such times. Miss Amelia made a private note to keep such observations secret.
“What do you mean we haven’t had a true battle?” Miss Veronica threw her bag to the bedroom floor, her irritation from the train ride funneling into her surprise. “That there will be no war! Do you walk the streets? Virginia has seceded!” Her resentment abounded as she caught a nervous glance exchanged between Mrs. Beaumont and her roommate. “You weren’t there, the mornin’ the bombin’ began. Four in the mornin’! — Of all the times to start a war. I should like to hear you argue that point, Miss Williams. All you people are the same! You-all think us southern girls are here to amuse!” She grabbed Miss Amelia’s arm. “Well, this may come as quite a shock. I am a sensible person, though I may pretend not. I should like to hear anyone say I be but a pretty thing to look at!”
Stuttering, Miss Amelia wished she could say something to reconcile. How interesting, she thought, that Miss Veronica’s accent became thicker when agitated. “It was merely an opinion,” she said, averting her eyes to the hand that gripped her arm.
“Your opinion is wrong!”
“An opinion cannot be wrong, no matter where one comes from! From what I understand, this state, Virginia, the ‘Old Dominion,’ has only recently seceded, amongst much heated debate! For you to condemn me for my observation is distasteful. Listen well,” she said, “I always speak my mind. Whether you like it or not is neither my care nor concern!”
“You needn’t be so harsh,” Miss Veronica gasped, shocked by her sudden burst. She clutched Miss Amelia’s arm to stiffen her resolve.
“What a stupid comment to make,” Amelia retorted, though now that she
had her say, she was content. Smiling, she discerned a change in Veronica’s countenance. Her stance was neither so stiff nor unrelenting, and the spirit in her eyes no longer held the glint of scarcely repressed anger.
Mrs. Beaumont was politely confused as they laughed. “Yes, well…that was interestin’, dears. You all should be comfortable in this room, I think. If you like, you can bathe in the washroom or behind the changin’ screens.” She paused to point at the folding screens leaning against the walls.
Veronica found them aesthetically pleasing.
Mrs. Beaumont’s skirt swayed as she escaped out the door. “I hope you-all don’t mind that breakfast is very prompt, if you want to have it. Maum Jo has enough to do, and I hate to burden her and all, you know how it is…she is getting’ on in years and I just don’t have the money to buy more slaves. Though I actually inherited Maum Jo from my own momma, but that is beside the point. We also serve dinner, but if you like you could eat elsewhere, at an acquaintance or somethin’. I do hope you enjoy your stay.”
Amelia weakly thanked Mrs. Beaumont for all her help, and shut the door to lean against it, exhausted to the point of shock.
Meanwhile, Veronica critiqued the square room. The beds were at the two walls, their trunks at the feet. There were two vanities: it seemed Mrs. Beaumont felt they would be quite vain. The drapes were a pleasing burgundy, reflecting the first floor theme; the round carpet covering the center of the floor was a deep blue, with gray stars scattered throughout.
Amelia thought it interesting the stars weren’t gold: that would have denoted a northern leaning. Oh! How she would like to fall into bed and sleep the day away.
“The beds will have to be moved,” Veronica said. “Back home, when I walk through the door, I see the two beds in the two far corners of the room, anglin’ to the center.”
Not knowing what they conversed of, Amelia muttered a polite response as Veronica dragged her two trunks beside the door. She followed suit with Amelia’s after a moment’s hesitation, and faced Amelia, foot tapping. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Are you goin’ to help me move the beds?”
“For what?”
“Are you goin’ to help me, or not?” Veronica cried, throwing her hands in exasperation.
“What am I expected to do?”
“We are goin’ to move these beds into a more homey-like status. Won’t it be nice when we are done! Hey, wait—where are you goin’, Miss Williams?” Veronica demanded, watching her roommate open the door with one hand to push her trunk and valise out with the other.
“I came to sleep, be fed, and enjoy myself, not be put to work to please my obstinate roommate.” Hearing laughter, Amelia turned to gaze at Veronica in calm surprise.
“You are quite the character, Miss Williams,” Veronica laughed, walking around her roommate to drag the trunk into the room and blockade the door. “But that shall not prevent your helpin’ me get this room to what it needs to be. Come now, let’s have fun.”
Pulling off her jacket, Amelia rolled up her sleeves and dropped her hoops for mobility.
“What a novel idea!” Veronica exclaimed, following suit.
Amelia bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Which bed shall we move first, southern spitfire?” Upon hearing they were to move hers, she paused. “Which one is mine?”
“The one on the left, of course. I always sleep on the right side of the room.”
Of course. “How silly of me to ask.” Amelia was surprised that she enjoyed herself as they dragged the beds the way Veronica wished. With the carpet rearranged beneath the newly angled beds, the grandfather clock on the floor below struck a resonating one. The room had taken on a more welcoming aura, and Amelia was quite pleased with the effect. “We should probably change,” she said, noting their lack of cleanliness in the full-length mirror behind the changing screen.
Veronica seemed to contain all the energy she possessed prior to the undertaking. “I didn’t think you had it in you, after your complaints.”
“I didn’t complain!”
“You did,” Veronica smiled as she turned to unbutton her blouse.
Amelia’s lips pressed together as she quickly changed into a calico print. “I do not complain once I realize the work given must be done, and by me. I do not mind workin’. Since I obviously have no beauty, I’ve decided a man might want a wife who can work.”
“You are very pretty,” Veronica’s voice was dimly heard from the folds of fabric that made up her stylish cinnamon pink dress. “Why would you say you are not pretty?” she gazed in admiration at the full-length mirror. Everyone knew cinnamon pink was popular to wear, but Veronica knew it especially complimented her chocolate eyes.
Amelia would not answer, turning to the vanity mirror as she pulled her hair back with a matching pale yellow ribbon. Feeling the conversation touched a subject improper for inmates of less than three hours, she said, “I’m hungry. I’m goin’ to eat.”
Veronica watched Amelia pick up her skirts and accost the door, determined to end the conversation without harm to her pride. Observing Amelia seemed to be one who meet kindness with the like, Veronica called, “And I wasn’t actin’ back then.”
Amelia paused: apparently, her roommate had decided to change the subject and pique her interest. “You weren’t?”
Veronica’s blond curls bounced as she shook her head. “No—I am quite sick of bein’ considered an amusin’ puppet. I suppose one could say I hit my boilin’ point and could not take any sort of insinuations anymore. My stresses are many and my pleasures few, though I am rich.”
“Yes, I can see how money would cause a problem,” Amelia sarcastically said, drawing Veronica’s hand through her arm. “I shall have no qualms helpin’ you with that trouble, if you should ever need a helpin’ hand.”
Veronica laughed, glad she had struck a friendly chord. “Yes, well, I am glad to know you are at least willin’ to offer. Others would rather…well, let us not ponder such things. Let us go eat.”
* * * * *
April, 1861
The last candle to be extinguished was Veronica’s as she scrambled to finish her curious scribbling in a leather-bound book. Crouched in the cozy nook created by the angle between the bed and wall, she finished the freshly drawn sketch of her new roommate. It was a tolerable likeness, one to be improved by fresh eyes after a good amount of sleep. A squeak from the bed across the room froze all activity, as Veronica was quite afraid her secret would be discovered.
“April 30, ‘61
“DIARY—I am come from Charleston, though to what I am not sure. The Richmond of old is no longer here, as people riot in the streets, demanding war faster than it chooses to come. I pretend to be as self-absorbed as those around me, and pay no heed to the passionate men of this fair city. But for how long I can sustain this charade is worrisome. I see more than I admit, and think more than I ought, according to Papa. A seventeen-year-old girl simply does not have the capacity or right to think freely.
“My roommate, Miss Amelia Williams, is a character to be well observed. Such peculiar notions running through her mind! To listen to her is to listen to an activist, I daresay. Momma would not like to hear such strong-minded talk coming from such a quaint creature.
“And yet I must admit I do like to hear her speak so, for it is as I have felt these five years hence. Since Papa’s death, I find myself wanting to break free. I hope to find a way, but if not…Perhaps I will find a husband who may show me the way. I know there are such men who believe a woman is equal. I have known one such a person.
“Amelia stirs—I shall continue these thoughts another night when my worries lay as heavily as they do now.”
Veronica paused to listen to her lightly sleeping bedfellow. She signed her name with a flourish and gently closed her journal, tucking it beneath her pillow for safekeeping. She snuggled beneath the covers as the warmth soothed her travel-jolted joints.
Morning came much too soon.
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Amelia pulled the covers from Veronica’s cowering face. “Are you sick? Give me the symptoms and I can cure you,” she eagerly said, reaching for Veronica’s wrist.
“What creature are you?” Veronica grumbled, waving her away. The results of her late-night soul-searching lay thickly on her sleep-deprived body. “Be you gone, demon.”
“We will have such fun as roommates, you and I. It is late mornin’, are you sick?”
“I am not sick.” Veronica stepped from her bed shivering in spite of the humidity. “I was up late and fell asleep in the most tryin’ manner.”
Amelia nodded, pulling out an attractive blue dress for Veronica to wear. “Yes, I could hear you writin’ away until I could no longer keep my eyes open. Well, this is a pretty dress; I'd like to see you in it, Miss Veronica. It must go so well with your hair.” Amelia laid the dress against Veronica’s shoulder to compare the blue to her blonde hair. Smiling as Nan entered the room with a breakfast tray, Amelia exclaimed, “Breakfast in bed! That is what I call riches!”
“Missy, what you doin’ outta bed so early? You are goin’ to catch your death runnin’ in nothin’ but your nightgown,” Nan admonished, setting the tray on the bedside table. She spread a napkin across Veronica’s lap and settled the tray on top of it. “You eat up, now, Missy. I am not gonna be tellin’ your momma that I can’t take care of you.”
Laughing, Veronica bit into the lavishly buttered toast and eagerly drank a draught of coffee. “I would still be in bed if it were not for her,” she said, pointing to her roommate as Nan made her bed.
“Breakfast in bed, late hours at night, catch death walkin’ in one’s room in a nightgown, and thinks it too early to be awake before ten! Such odd customs you have, Veronica.” Amelia plopped onto the bed beside Veronica and laughed at her roommate’s bemused expression.
Catching the Rose Page 3
