“What does he have to do with that rose?” Veronica asked, already weary of the quarrel.
Amy jumped into the conversation to explain, “Madge meant the lieutenant reminded her of Brad. Didn’t you, Madge?”
“Hmm…yes, he was quite kind and thoughtful. Attentive and charming, with a shock of jet black hair, I couldn’t help but see the similarities, as I am sure you have, Veronica.”
How degrading, that Madge read Veronica’s thoughts so easily. Of course she had noticed. She had argued with herself all night. What if they were not Jonathan and Brad, but merely Brad? And yet, what a laugh, if it were Brad. How ironic.
“Ronnie, we have lost you from the discussion,” Amy prodded. “What do you think of?”
“Forgive me…yes—you are right, Madge, there were similarities even a stupid southern girl like me would have had the common sense to pick up. But that they are similar gives me no qualms. I am quite content in knowin’ that Brad is in Washington, and I am here, and Jon—the Lieutenant is hear. They are not the same, no matter what you may try to pummel into my frivolous little head,” Veronica said, answering in such a way that made Amy wonder what exactly had happened between them.
“May I have my rose?” Veronica demanded, her hand out for her gift.
“Take it—I am disgusted with its smell,” Madge snapped, shoving the rose into Veronica’s hand, resentfully jerking aside her skirts and swept up the stairs to her bedroom. She shut her door with a resounding slam and proceeded to undress for bed.
Amy yawned behind her fan. Well, that was one argument stalled for morning. “I think we best get to bed, Ronnie. Dancin’ till dawn is not my—what in the world are you doin’?”
Frowning, Veronica halted her inspection of the rose to muse, “You know, this rose reminds me of another. Could you possibly guess?”
Amy quickly shook her head.
“I am sure you know this rose, Amy, or else you would not be so quick to dismiss it! Come now, be truthful. This rose is come from your bush in Washington, isn’t it? That man was Brad, was it not? Oh! I am ashamed of myself. The things I told him!”
Amy blinked.
“You are bein’ dumb, Amy. Speak.”
“I know not what you are talkin’ about, Ronnie. That rose is similar to my bush…but so are roses from the hothouse, where I am sure the Lieutenant got this one. How in the world would he be able to come from Washington to bring you a rose? Was he plannin’ on meetin’ you here? Really, Ronnie, there are moments where I worry about you.”
“Of course,” Veronica said. As usual, Amy was right. She was jumping to conclusions—something she must remedy. But a thought niggled. Following Amy to their bedroom, Veronica found she could not banish the thought of Jonathan as Nan helped her escape her layers of clothing. What if Jonathan be Brad? If it be true, then Veronica was in danger for then Brad knew too much of her thoughts and history to be the complacent observer he assumed. She stepped into her nightgown and slid under her bedcovers.
“Amy?” she ventured. The bundle across the room replied with a muted muffle. She repeated herself, gasping when Amy snapped her sheet and demanded to know the cause of such a disruption.
“What did you and that…Lieutenant talk about before Mr. Harris and I arrived?”
Amy paused before answering, aware of Veronica’s potential jealousy. “We were talkin’ about Uncle Tom’s Cabin. He was tellin’ me what it did for his family and friends.”
Well, that subject certainly did not match the smiles and laughter he had induced from Amy, though Veronica hardly had reason to question Amy’s reply. “He was a Yankee, wasn’t he?” She asked, playing with the ribbons on her nightgown. Though Veronica didn’t want to know the answer, she had to ask for it was imperative to know how deep she was willing to let her feelings spread. Infatuation was dangerous.
“Why is this so important?”
“Who said it was important? I didn’t. Did I?”
“No, you didn’t say it was important. But this is the only man you are askin’ questions about. And I almost think you are rather jealous of the time we had together.”
“Quite the contrary. I wondered what engaged you for so long. He was a bore,” Veronica assured, yawning to prove so.
Amy fluffed her pillow and settled for the night, satisfied that Veronica was satisfied.
“Amy?”
“What could you possibly have to talk about!”
Veronica ignored her terse tone, holding her bedside candle high to more clearly see Amy’s expression. “What made you read it? Uncle Tom, I mean. —Mr. Stratford told me it was a book full of horrendous lies.”
“Perhaps it is. Even so, it was founded on the truth of what she knew, of that I am sure. One could say, people began to decide their cause because of Mrs. Beecher’s graphic writin’.”
“What is it about?”
“An angelic slave beaten by a villainous owner, and a slave girl running across a frozen river to protect her baby while chased by hungry dogs and bounty hunters.” Amy answered, struck by Veronica’s daunted appearance. “How slave families are torn apart.”
“Not all southerners are like that,” Veronica whispered, replacing her candle on her nightstand. So, Amy and Jonathan had talked of Uncle Tom’s Cabin before she came forward. Was that conversation a prequel to the slighting comment Jonathan had made about the southern woman he once knew?
Amy gazed at Veronica’s face, wondering what she thought about.
“Since you and…um, that masked man you wanted me to dance with, were talkin’ about that book, do you suppose that’s why he made a condescendin’ comment about me?” Veronica finally asked after a lengthy silence.
“He is very hard to read.”
Veronica zealously nodded. “He made me feel—” She would have said more, but a teasing look had come into Amy’s eyes, and her evident interest in the matter would not do. “He made me feel a criminal because I figuratively own a slave, or that I know people who do.”
“He seemed very intellectual, as though he usually does not do such things as parties. He was well reserved and educated, and I was much amused by his comment that he would much rather be at home, readin’, than anythin’ else.”
So. He had told Amy as much as well. That would explain why Amy had laughed so heartily before Veronica managed to cross the room. “…And?”
“Well…he had a fine pair of eyes.”
Veronica blew out her candle and pulled a bit too hard on her sheets. Certain that she heard Amy chuckle, she tried to convince herself that her pillow be too warm, or her bed too cold, and that this kept her awake hours after Amy fell asleep.
As dawn came, Veronica dressed with Nan’s unwanted help. Fastening the last button, she hitched her skirts and rushed down to the card plate in the foyer. Disappointed when she found it to be empty, Veronica flinched as Madge swept by with a glare. She followed Madge to the breakfast room and stood by her seat, wishing she could smile at the sight of Amy hovering over her coffee.
Madge found she had much simpler pleasures: eating breakfast and glowering at Veronica between bites.
Veronica smoothed her napkin across her lap as she sat. “How was everyone’s night?”
Amy swallowed her coffee with her eyes clamped, gasping as the caffeine hit her head. “Don’t ever convince me to go to another party. My head aches like there’s no tomorrow.”
“You enjoyed it while it lasted, though, I am sure…you fell asleep hours before me and I am sure it was because your spirits were exhausted by the excitement of the party.” Veronica glanced at Madge, who, she found, still glowered. “What have I done wrong now?”
Reaching into her apron, Madge pulled out a slip of paper. “Amy, do you know anyone by the name of ‘Jinx?’ For, I know no one of such a name, nor do I wish to know, I am sure. If someone was so unfortunate to be named such, surely they would not be worth knowing.” She was satisfied to see Veronica blushing. “Do you know anyone of that name?”
“Perhaps I do.” Veronica twirled her spoon as though bored.
“I know my brother thought a southern girl to be a jinx. I know he merely wanted to get rid of that girl, and so would torture her with teases and taunts. Is that not so, Amy?”
“You know that card is for Veronica,” Amy snapped, turning to Veronica and explain, “Maum Jo told us that a man stopped by unusually early. She said he told her to tell the girl who understood the card that he was leavin’ on a modest trip. Do you know of him?”
Veronica smiled. Jonathan had visited, when he said he would not. He had in fact told her he would not be able to be reached, to stop her from embarrassing herself. So kind, and considerate! Such a person could not be bad, or wrongful. “Of course I know of him. You just told me of him.”
“Come now! That’s not fair, you’re beatin’ round the bush,” Amy grumbled, rubbing her temples.
Veronica buttered and spread jam on her toast. “I know what it refers to. But, you see,”—she paused to bite her bread—“I am not sure I am allowed to tell. After all, it was he who brought it up, not I. It is his secret. He merely shared it with me.” She smiled over her coffee rim as she sipped the beverage. “I am a victim of circumstance.”
“Victim of circumstance! What a trump of a liar you are. I’ll show you victim of circumstance,” Madge cried, producing the card with a flourish to throw it amid the trays of food. She rushed from the room as Veronica jumped from her seat, screaming bloody murder.
Amy, in her rush to find the card and halt Veronica’s wailing, knocked over Madge’s coffee and drenched her sleeve as well as the table.
“You’ll get the card wet!” Veronica exclaimed, whipping her apron forward to dab the tablecloth.
“I found it,” Amy laughed, picking it up from the other end of the table. “Take it, you, and leave my headache in peace. You have claimed your prize, enjoy it!”
“But there isn’t anythin’ on it. Why would he only write Jinx in the top so small, and leave all that space?” Veronica frowned, flipping the card over in exasperation. “You would think a man of his intellect would have a little more to say.”
Amy scrutinized the card, finally holding it to the window. “Ronnie, dear, he must have written to you in lemon juice, for I just barely make out some of what he has written.”
“You mock me!” Veronica said, her frown threatening to become permanent. When Amy perused the card, she became indignant and ripped it from Amy’s hand “If he wrote somethin’ on it, then he wrote it for me, not you.” She left, followed by Amy’s laughter, to her bedroom. Frowning, she proceeded to squint in the sunlight in order to read on the transparent card:
“JINX, I will not be available—as Maum Jo should have told you.”
Veronica interrupted her reading to wonder how he could have known the slave. Surely, Amy wouldn’t have thought to name a slave at last night’s party. But then again, he could have asked Amy, knowing he would be stopping by. Yes, this had to be so; this was the truth of his acumen.
“In a week, I should like to meet you in Mrs. Beaumont’s backyard,”—Veronica turned the card—“or her stables, so we may talk.” She climbed from her seat in a great hurry, and, falling to her knees, ripped open her trunk. After searching through her belongings, she reached for a small pile of letters held together by a ribbon and slid the card in beside them. How relieved Veronica was to find someone to prevent her marriage to Bentley.
* * * * *
November, 1861
The house was lackadaisical: no one was particularly in the mood to do anything. Veronica lounged on the sofa, quite put out. Bentley had returned home…nothing to complain about in that particular instance. She received no letters from Jonathan; Madge was complacent, Amy spent the day at the Harris’s, Mrs. Beaumont was sewing with her friends.
Veronica was decidedly put out. She tried reading, but the day did not seem productive enough to read. The piano had called to her, but once Veronica ran her fingers along the keys, she found inspiration lacking. Drawing was out of the question as her hands felt swollen from the heat. The thought had entered her mind to write a letter, but sense discouragingly asked, whom she would write to? It was a good question: Veronica couldn’t write home for fear her uncle would demand her return. She couldn’t write to Bentley. Her relationship with the girls from home was one on which they fawned when near, and gossiped from afar.
“This is impossible!” Veronica cried, half laughing. Mid-pace, she heard someone approach the main entrance and knock. “Don’t worry, Maum Jo, I’ll get it!” She called, opening the door to find a little red-haired boy. “Yes?” she asked, looking behind him to find an employer.
“I come to give you this, ma’am,” he said, offering a small and thin letter.
“No message? There is no return address—do you really expect me to accept this?”
“Ma’am, the man told me you would take the letter, no questions asked.”
“What man? Describe him to me.”
“Tall, for sure. Hair dark as night, and blue eyes.”
“There are hundreds of men who fit that description!” Veronica cried. “If you don’t tell me now, you are not goin’ to get any food from Maum Jo in the back, you-hear? Now answer me clear. Who is this man? What is his name?”
“Why, Mr. Jonathan, ma’am. If that’s all you wanted to know, why didn’t you just ask? —Am I goin’ to get some food now?”
“Yes, yes, go in the back and tell Maum Jo that Miss Ronnie sent you.” She dismissed him with a smile as she waved him away. This was something to spice her day. A calling card, she had been expecting. To think he had actually taken out at least half an hour to write a letter, and then find some child to send her the message; he gave the boy his name! He definitely wanted her to receive the letter, then.
Veronica waited for Maum Jo to complain of unannounced guests before stepping into the parlor. Pulling the doors shut, she opened the wax sealing, and found the letter was not addressed to Jinx.
Of course, if someone were to pick up the letter, it would make no difference, for it was still addressed to her. But as Veronica…not Jinx, Ronnie, or Miss Vernon; not even Nettle.
“November 9, 1861
“VERONICA—I know you have waited for me to write. I am sorry to keep you in such suspense, but I have been quite busy. Have you heard, Miss Vernon, that Fort Walker and Fort Beauregard were both silenced by the Yankee blockade? No doubt you have—for you are not the ignorant woman I mistook you for at the party.”
Veronica paused to wonder at his meaning. She had yet to understand whether he be Yankee or Confederate.
“Am I presumptuous in assuming you did not expect me to write of the war? I am sure you still doubt which cause I am for, as I made an attempt to be vague. Well, I suppose that is something we can talk of when we meet. In short, I will be waiting in Mrs. B’s stable—I hope this is preferable as I am sure I will not be able to meet another time.
“Yours ever,
“JONATHAN”
Exasperating man. That he should assume Veronica so devoid of company that she would drop everything to meet him in a stable. And yet, he was very intuitive. Such a sleuth he was, to produce such a trusting aura. How Veronica wished to write him back, to provide a response!
“Who’s that boy with Maum Jo?” Madge slammed open the doors with a healthy energy.
A look of recognition spread. “He is still here?” Veronica bolted to the kitchen, finding the boy about to leave. “Wait!” she cried, grabbing him.
“I didn’t even steal anythin’, and I still get caught for doin’ somethin’ bad!”
“I want you to find that man and give him my response. Could you do that for me?” Veronica waved a pastry in the air.
“Sure, just so long as I get that treat there,” he said, grabbing at the tartlet.
“All right, then.” She scribbled a response at the bottom of the letter. “You give this to that man, and you make sure he gets it. You tel
l him Miss Ronnie said Mr. Jonathan knows he can come and visit anytime. You remember that, now…I don’t want to find he didn’t get my message!”
“Don’t you worry none. It’s all up here,” he said, pointing to his cap.
“It better be, or else you’re gonna get it down there where your legs meet the rest of your body,” Veronica said, shooing him away with a smile.
Madge stood quite mystified by the proceedings. Glancing at Maum Jo, who heard every word in the house and yet never gossiped, she said, “Now, Nettle, what was all that about?”
“Do not ever call me that, again, Madge. Call me Veronica, if you must, that is insult enough. But never Nettle,” Veronica snapped as she left the kitchen.
“You let my brother call you that, why not me? I thought we were in the same class.”
Veronica caught a laugh as she sat at the piano. Jonathan’s letter had given her sufficient inspiration. “A man is never in the same class as a woman. You a new woman or somethin’?”
“I suppose you could call me that,” Madge mused as she stretched over the sofa, pulling a pillow close as Veronica’s fingers floated over the keys. “If it didn’t have such a dirty connotation to it, I’d be proud to be called as such. It’s better than being deemed a nettle.”
“I suppose you are right.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what all that fuss was about in the kitchen? You know I’m dying to know. I can’t have such momentous occasions happen and me not be a part of them!” Madge was discouraged to find Veronica’s only reply was the emphasis of certain notes in the song. “You know I’ll enlist Amy’s help as soon as she returns,” Madge warned.
“And you know she will not help you.”
Frowning, Madge turned. “Why, hello, Mrs. B! I hadn’t expected you home so soon,” she exclaimed, surprised to find her standing in the doorway.
“I see that—no one heard my knock and I had to open the door myself,” Mrs. Beaumont observed. “If I were in a worse mood I daresay I would not look upon the occurrence as lightly as I do now. Maum Jo, I assume, is in the kitchen complainin’ that someone got her floor wet? I thought so. Well! I had a wonderful day. How was yours, dears?”
Catching the Rose Page 17
