Catching the Rose

by Belinda Kroll

  Veronica closed her eyes, unsure if she shivered from his voice, question, or accursed mention of her name. “I can’t be whipped. I can’t be. Don’t you understand? I’m…white.”

  “Don’t you feel lucky, Veronica, that you weren’t born with skin darker than your own porcelain complexion?”

  “This is how life has always been,” she choked.

  “No, this isn’t how it’s always been, Veronica—”

  “Stop callin’ me that! Only my father called me that.”

  “I didn’t realize…” he paused to study her horrified gaze, catching the whip as it fell from her hand. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories of your father’s death.”

  “What a laugh. Without Daddy ‘round, Momma didn’t have to be strong when he came home drunk. Momma has never been strong. I could take care of her without him gettin’ mad at me for disobeyin’ orders. And—I didn’t have to worry about pretendin’ to be somethin’ I wasn’t. With Daddy gone, I could ride any horse the way I wanted to, and—I could socialize with friends. Real friends, not Bentley. I wasn’t sad when Daddy died.”

  “Do you take life for granted?”

  Veronica resented his soft tone. Her entire life, she had been brought up a certain way…suddenly two men, who for some reason influenced her conscience, revealed her life to be a fraud. “Don’t preach to me. I’ve had enough of bein’ preached to. Brad preached to me, thinkin’ maybe it would change my mind—does he think me so countrified that I don’t know when a man is attracted to me? And you speak of how wonderful he is—what he claims to be, I daresay. I’m not the one to be taught—I wasn’t the one who left the week of the death of a friend’s father.”

  “Don’t you take that tone with me.”

  “At least I stayed true, Jack.” She ducked as the whip snapped near her head. Shrieking as the strip of leather wrapped around her waist, Veronica’s hands flew to the line. Dazed, she was surprised that her corset absorbed the slicing pain she expected to feel. Veronica flew into Jonathan’s arms as he jerked the whip. “What are you doin’?” she gasped.

  “Let me think,” he barked. With alarm, he realized she addressed him as Jack as she whimpered, “Please let me go.” Jonathan gazed at her as though he wished to say something but had not the courage.

  “It is mornin’, and the others will be lookin’ for me. You must let me go.”

  “Do you wish to never see me again?” Jonathan unwound the whip from Veronica’s waist, careful to never touch her for he did not wish to cause more pain. “I will understand…I have acted horribly. Go back to your southern fiancé, southern plantation, southern mother and southern friends. Forget about me.”

  “I would rather not go home to my mad fiancé, weak mother, and silly friends. I like it in Richmond and I liked it in the Union capital.”

  “You should go where you belong.”

  “Did you not hear me? I liked D.C., for all that Brad did to dissuade and terrify me.”

  “You don’t belong here.”

  “And where do you belong? Do you live in New York, or someplace like that?”

  “I live in Washington. I have been a Yankee since a year after I moved there. I—my family left the week of your father’s burial, because with my father was a…merchant and business was better up north. It was coincidence that we left the week of your father’s funeral.” He slightly pulled down his mask to wipe his forehead. His hair fell, and he impatiently combed it back.

  That action was too familiar to be dismissed, Veronica reasoned. “You were my motive for comin’ hear,” she involuntarily cried.

  “Why should I be the reason?”

  Blushing, Veronica hastened to explain. “With Bentley chasin’ me everywhere, I became desperate for escape. I figured if I found you, we could become engaged, even if it was a farce, and you could…banish him from my sight.” She paused. “I wanted to tell you I missed our talks. Much of what you said then, makes sense now. And you know, a lot of what you told me, Brad reiterated. Perhaps I was wrong to condemn him.”

  Jonathan smiled as he turned away. “I am glad you are reevaluating your condemnation of Brad though he teased you so horribly.”

  “He has been a horrible boar, I admit. But, I enjoyed the attention.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Jonathan laughed.

  “You laugh just like him. He must have influenced you very much.”

  “You could say that.”

  “And, you brush back your hair in Brad’s style.”

  “I believe you think it’s cute.”

  “Assume what you like,” she quipped.

  Jonathan laughed. “I’m sure he does not think pushing the hair from his eyes as endearing.”

  “Believe me, there is nothin’ endearin’ about him. He’s a horrible boar…a regular beast occasionally turned Prince Charmin’.” She backed out the door. “The sun—Amy’s probably wonderin’ where I have gone.”

  “I must admit you are not quite the jinx I first took you for.”

  “I hadn’t realized there were different sorts.”

  “Yes, well. As soon as I decide which sort you are, I will be sure to contact you.” Jonathan ushered her out of the stable, waiting until she locked the house behind her before slipping the mask from his face. He exhaled in relief, nodding his farewell to Beauregard.

  * * * * *

  November, 1861

  On nights when Veronica should have dreamed of Jonathan, she instead dreamt of Brad’s teasing smiles. More often than not, she would awake with a start, expecting him to be in the room, his voice quite clear. She could not confide her confusion and self-loathing to Amy, who would merely smile and look pleased. Veronica suspected Amy wished a match between the two. Confidences in Madge foretold danger, as her idolization of Brad and temper tended to make her unapproachable.

  And her journal, of late, no longer provided comfort.

  Though she found herself busy with mindless sewing bees and the like, Veronica one day realized, as she snipped a thread amidst twenty chattering women, that she was lonely. She longed for the conversations Brad, no, Jonathan indulged her with. Frowning, she set aside the shirt she sewed to “freshen up.”

  Perhaps Brad was crude, vulgar, and insensitive to her southern ways. He knew how to make her smile as soon as cry, and Veronica found she silently rewarded his attention with her appreciation. And as she returned to her seat, Veronica could clearly hear her mother preach…one of the few moments she had imparted reasonable advice: “Appreciation is the danger. It leads to respect. And respect, well, it only leads to likin’, which can only turn to love. As soon as respect becomes a problem, cut yourself off—it will save much heartache.”

  Well, respect was hardly the problem, now. After saving her life at Manassas, Brad would always have her respect. No. the problem was she was beginning to like him. How irritating, to realize that absence did in fact make the heart grow fonder.

  And what of Jonathan? Surely Veronica loved Jonathan—who wouldn’t? His eyes made her blush when wondering his thoughts. He made her laugh, had saved her from Bentley, and promised to call. He challenged her thinking and seemed to value her opinions, which was rare. Yes, surely Veronica loved Jonathan. How could she not love a man who recited her favorite play, chose her favorite foods, and offered to duel Bentley should he become too bothersome?

  Logically, she could not.

  And as Veronica silently rode home, oblivious to Amy and Mrs. Beaumont’s interest in her dispiritedness, she happily decided she was in love with Jonathan, whether he be her Jack or not. He would be a kind husband, obliging and loving. She could hardly ask for more. Finally, she would be rid of Bentley.

  Missing most of the conversation, Veronica only realized they had entered the library when Mrs. Beaumont left it chattering about how envious the others would be at the sight of her new dress.

  Amy shook her head in wonder. “I wonder how she calls them friends. They try anythin’ to make the other jealous.�
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  Veronica smoothed her skirt. “I’m not sure you understand, Amy, dear. Mrs. B was cast from her place in society when her husband lost all their money. Now that she’s regained her position, with my careful help, she’s revelin’. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Your careful money, you mean. You southerners are a bunch of hypocrites, Nettle. You sneer at the Yankee preoccupation with money, and yet it’s all you speak of when your place in society is concerned,” Madge scoffed.

  “Don’t call me Nettle, Madge.”

  Madge stormed from the room. Oh, for the day when she would get the last word.

  “I suppose she has a point. We do sort of have a double standard, don’t we?” Veronica murmured, fiddling with her skirt. “What is it with you yanks all the time? Always preachin’, always bein’ right when I want you to be wrong.”

  “Are you thinkin’ of Brad, Ronnie?” Amy asked.

  Bashfully, she gazed sidelong at her friend. “What sort of a question is that?”

  “Well, you’re just full of avoidances today, aren’t you, Ronnie?”

  “You impertinent girl.”

  Amy opened her book in an attempt to continue her reading. Nonchalantly, she turned a page, murmuring, “When last did you leave to enjoy the company of Richmond’s society?”

  “As I’ve never truly enjoyed it, it has been forever since I left the house to enjoy the company of Richmond’s society.” Veronica batted her lashes, slipping into her deep accent.

  “I worry, Ronnie. You do not tease as you used to—even that was half-hearted.”

  “You wouldn’t be tryin’ to get me out of the house tomorrow, would you?”

  “Why would I do a thing like that?” Amy asked in such a way that banished all suspicions from Veronica’s mind. Amy hid behind her book to disguise her embarrassed blush.

  “I think odd things when I’m tired,” Veronica sighed. Hearing Amy leave for bed, she cursed her own evasive sleep as the hours passed.

  Yes, she would go to Mrs. Smith’s tomorrow. Anything was better than lounging about the house days at a time, becoming a social hermit. Perhaps it was time to go home. “I hope Mrs. Smith doesn’t show me her new china,” Veronica murmured as she finally slipped into bed.

  * * * * *

  “That was a wonderful visit, wasn’t it, dear?” Mrs. Beaumont said, practically skipping to her house. “Mrs. Smith is a wonderful hostess, when the mood suits. Her new china is so wonderful! So elegant, so charmin’!”

  “Very charmin’ for a money-grubbin’ woman who married because she wanted to leave the happiness of her home and family for a man who drinks heavily,” Veronica replied, snapping off her gloves. Her eye caught a man’s hat hanging freely from the coat rack. “Who is here, Mrs. B? Are you expectin’ anyone?”

  “You wait a moment and I’ll ask Maum Jo. I’ll make sure it ain’t that fiancé of yours.”

  Veronica paused at the parlor doors, which were slightly open to reveal the sound of Amy entertaining a guest. Hearing her laugh, Veronica was satisfied by thinking it was Rhett’s younger brother. She slipped to her room, changing from her walking shoes to slippers. An intriguing eruption of gaiety forced Veronica to follow the ringing of Amy and Madge’s laughter.

  Reaching the stair, she bent over the railing to see Madge lean into the parlor from the hall.

  Madge attempted to continue the conversation as she grabbed the mysterious man’s hat and gloves and returned to the parlor.

  Perhaps the stranger was leaving early. If so, Veronica would be able to see him; she was perfectly content in waiting. Hearing a door open, she turned to find Mrs. Beaumont leaving her room in her evening attire. “Mrs. B, did you discover who’s in the parlor?”

  “As if you don’t know. Now, you tell the girls I won’t be back until late. My, these days of popularity are excitin’!”

  Veronica indulgently smiled as Mrs. Beaumont sashayed out amid sounds of her friends in the awaiting carriage at the curb. She blinked as she spied Madge leave the parlor—skipping.

  “I’ll get us some coffee, would you like coffee, dear?” Madge asked.

  Astounding! Veronica had never heard that term of endearment jump from Madge’s lips. The suspense was too much, to be sure. Convinced Madge was happily occupied in the kitchen with Maum Jo, she crept down the stair amid squeaking boards. How she hoped Amy and her companion did not hear!

  The conversation paused. Veronica held her breath in the anticipation that Amy would throw open the doors and find her standing there, shoulders hunched and shoes in hand to aid in her creeping. The conversation resumed, owing the noises to Nan or Maum Jo.

  How curious, that he knew Nan…had Amy spoken of Veronica? She leaned close, straining to hear what Amy said, for it was obviously not Mr. Harris who graced their residence.

  And where was Mrs. Beaumont? At a party…of all places to be at a time like this, Mrs. B! How could she leave a man un-chaperoned with Amy and Madge? Entirely uncalled for and improper on her part, Veronica felt. So many times, Veronica had been left alone with Brad: and look what that led to.

  What was that laughter? Entirely male. Entirely too familiar to be waived aside. Just as she was about to enter the parlor with an insincere smile, Veronica stopped in horror as she heard Amy cry, “Why, you make light of my trials with Madge! Brad, you rogue, I will teach you a lesson when you confide your trials with Ronnie.”

  Veronica stumbled from the door. In her backward haste, the side table wobbled. She managed to catch it before it fell. Wincing, she heard her shoes fall. Quite sure they would investigate the sound, she turned to find Madge toting the coffee tray.

  “Veronica!” Madge dropped the tray in surprise, smashing the china.

  The coffee, Veronica noted in her usual way, was wasted on the perfectly polished floor. She was careful to pull her skirts aside not to dirty them.

  “Madge, what are you doin’? I hope you haven’t spilt the coffee, or broken a cup—you know how Mrs. B dotes on her china,” and as Amy spoke her voice dwindled.

  Veronica assumed Amy now sat. Seeing Madge about to speak, she waved her to silence, bringing her finger to her lips. She pantomimed she would strangle Madge if she spoke a word.

  “What is it you wish to speak about, Brad?”

  Veronica could just imagine the situation: Amy was seated on the sofa, or perhaps the easy chair. Brad, in his easy manner, was seated on the floor with his head leaning on Amy’s knee. Or, perhaps they were seated together on the sofa. No, that would not work, for they liked to watch the faces of those they talked to.

  They were seated separately, then: Amy on the piano bench, swaying side to side on its spinning base, and Brad lounging on the sofa, too lazy to sit up straight, too comfortable talking with Amy to remember etiquette. That was the trickle of the keys—she must be at the piano.

  Madge stepped forward. This day was not going as planned. The excitement of Brad’s impulsive visit would last her for days, she was sure, but the shock of seeing Veronica almost cancelled it. “We didn’t know you were home—we thought you at Mrs. Smith’s, and that Mrs. Beaumont came home early to rest for tonight’s outing,” she whispered, wringing her hands in her apron. “Please, please, don’t ruin anything.”

  “Don’t ruin anythin’!” Veronica burst.

  A crash was heard in the parlor. Veronica assumed it was the falling piano stool as Amy jumped from it in alarm. She could hear heavier footsteps reach the parlor doors, hesitate and turn back, toward the kitchen doors. She reached for the doors to throw them open, but Madge jumped in her way, holding Veronica back with a strength that surprised her into momentary submission.

  “Please, Veronica! He’s my brother—I didn’t know he was coming today: this was a surprise for me. I don’t know what they’re talking about in there; I don’t know what they’re saying about you. I swear; I didn’t know he was coming today!”

  Pausing, Veronica sighed. “Be easy. I believe you, Madge.”

  “As you should.�
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  In their moment of sudden friendship, they listened to Amy and her companion scramble about the room. How horribly did they begin to comprehend!

  “Ronnie has returned! Quickly, grab your mask, or bandana, or somethin’! Go out the back way, perhaps? Oh dear! I hadn’t expected her to come so early—no, oh no, it’s not early! She was expected home an hour ago! Brad, what are we to do? She has not seen you since Mrs. B’s party, of course?”

  Either the reply was too quiet for Madge and Veronica to hear, or silence was the reply.

  “How many times?” Amy wearily asked.

  “I have written one or two letters—they were innocent! And I met with her in the stable one morning. That was probably more out of curiosity than anything, for her, at least.” The voice was decidedly Brad’s, Veronica could hear that now.

  “And for you?”

  Even though Veronica strained, she could not make out his reply.

  “It doesn’t matter now—you must leave before she finds you here. If she were to find you were the Jonathan from the party, she would have a fit! She’ll faint, I warrant you—do you want her to faint? Leave! Leave before she comes!” Veronica could hear a scraping noise, as though Amy forced him to exit.

  “Stay where you are!” Veronica slammed open the doors, tears blurring her vision. Standing at the back door was Amy and her cousin. The dark hair still fell before his eyes, just as it had in Washington, Mrs. Beaumont’s party, and even the barn, she realized. She had touched his hair, without realizing she smoothed the hair of a Yankee. This particular Yankee, even. Such soft hair for such a harsh man. Such gentle hands. Good heavens, she had permitted him to touch her ankle! Such intimacy made her blush.

  His eyes were penetrating, as usual. Too penetrating, too observant: his eyes mirrored her despair and outrage. Those eyes had looked over her ankle, had caressed the sheen of her hair at the party; those eyes had persuaded her to admit her deepest secrets. They seemed bluer than before; but what was it Veronica spied? Could it be the confidence which always brightened them were clouded by concern? She hardened herself against any sense of compassion Brad might feign to convey. She focused on the mask he held. Was it a souvenir? Something to remember that night by?