by Linda Swift
The remainder of the evening passed without further reference to the uncertain outcome of the prevailing political upheaval in the nation. Returning to the drawing room, Philip took his place at the grand piano and his mother came to stand beside him. Helen had recognized his giftedness and taught him to play when he was a child, earning her husband's stern disapproval for fostering anything so unmanly but she never ceased to be amazed and filled with pride that her apt pupil had developed such skill at the keyboard. She had even harbored a secret dream that he would choose music for a career, but his calling lay elsewhere, and she wasn't dissatisfied with that.
"Let's begin with 'Silent Night'," she suggested, and Philip played the first soft notes. Soon their voices were blended in harmony; Virginia's clear soprano matching Helen's own, Dorothea's alto adding a feminine contrast, as Philip and Edward joined to sing baritone in counterpoint with the deep bass notes of Thomas and William.
One after another, they sang the beautiful songs of Christmas, the message of hope and goodwill especially poignant as it touched their troubled hearts.
As they finished their songfest, Parson brought another tray filled with liqueurs and small confectionery cakes to refresh them. And then amid wishes of holiday blessings and cheer, Thomas and Edward and their wives said goodnight to Philip and the elder Burkes.
"I've asked Dorothea to bring her mother and younger sister tomorrow," Helen said as she watched them drive away. "Katherine Kingsley is twenty now. Seems like only yesterday that she was just a child, but now she teaches the primary grades, you know."
His mother's words were obviously directed at him, Philip knew, and he was well aware of her not-so-subtle efforts at matchmaking. He gave her a noncommittal smile. "That's nice." He would let her wonder if he meant that it was nice Katherine was teaching school or nice that she was coming for the holiday dinner. Actually, he didn't give a tinker's damn about either.
"We'll be going up to bed now, son. Will you be coming, or shall we ask Parson to stay up a while longer to tend the fire?" William asked.
"I think I'll go for a walk, Father." He bent to kiss his mother's cheek. "But there's no need to keep the servants up on my account."
He bade his parents goodnight, then at the ornately-carved hall tree, Philip stopped and pulled on his greatcoat and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He stood for a moment just outside the massive front door, dreading to step out of the shelter into the stinging wind that gusted with a fury off the bitter cold waters of the lake. The snow was still falling, and deep drifts obscured the walk, making grotesque shapes of the evergreens on either side of it. There was no sound until his muted footsteps broke the silence. Philip raised his face to feel the wetness of the flakes melting as they touched his warm skin and then began walking, taking pleasure in the solitude of the night.
The streets of Cambridge and even Boston Harbor seemed mild in comparison to the harsh winters that swept across Lake Ontario from the North. It had taken a hardy kind of people to settle here and establish their thriving industries of ship building and manufacturing and milling. And his ancestors had been a part of it, the Burkes Iron Works passing through three generations already. It was little wonder that his father had been so adamant that his sons succeed him but only the eldest had complied.
Philip could still recall vividly the scene in the library when he had faced his father with his intention of studying medicine.
"By God, I won't have it!" William had shouted. "First Edward defecting from the foundry, and now you. It is not to be tolerated. My father and his father before him have built a business to be proud of, and this family has amassed a fortune through the years as a result of their foresight and hard labor."
"Their perseverance is commendable, Father. And I'm grateful for all they and you have provided, but I want my life to count for something else. I want to heal people. I consider it a calling much as the ministry for some, and I have no choice but heed the call of my conscience."
His father had fixed him with a stern stare. "I need you to carry on when I'm no longer fit, Philip. The business has grown so that Thomas won't be able to manage alone."
"But, in time, he will have sons to take up the slack, and God willing, you'll be here to see them reach manhood." He had opened his hands, palms up, in a gesture of supplication. "I'm sorry, Father. Please try to understand."
"I will accept your refusal because I have no other choice, but I will never understand." He had spun around, broad shoulders sagging in defeat, and left the room.
When he reached the cross street, Philip turned onto Mohawk, avoiding the direct onslaught of the wind, and kept walking. He and his father had maintained an uneasy truce following their battle of wills that day; now he was almost twenty-five, and soon to be engaged in the practice of medicine. He would come back to Oswego, at least for a time. There was a need for a surgeon here, and he might yet make his father proud of him. Perhaps he would even marry soon. He thought again of Katherine Kingsley and tried to visualize how she might have blossomed since he last saw her, but only an image of Dorothea's monotonous demeanor came to mind. Well, there were plenty of other young women in a town the size of Oswego, and he was sure his mother and Virginia could be counted on to see that he met as many as he wished.
Philip's steps slowed as he thought of the present political situation. In spite of his father's adamant opinion that war was not probable, he felt the ominous possibility hovering over his future like a great vulture, poised to swoop down and destroy all his hopes and dreams. It was enough to keep him cautious about making firm plans because if war came, he would be compelled to fight.
Feeling the cold seeping into his very bones, Philip walked faster, head bowed, and gloved hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. He had made a complete turn and was now approaching the house again, a dark edifice that loomed ahead, barely visible through the swirling snow. His family owned the finest house in Oswego, a symbol of their wealth and power. But Philip and his brothers had grown up in a more modest home on an adjacent street which was now occupied by Thomas and Dorothea. It was at the time of their marriage that his father had built this monument to his successful empire.
Philip wondered if he would one day be a respected citizen of the city and the state as William Burke was now. He supposed it more likely that Thomas would fit that image. Or even Edward, although his middle brother had an easy-going manner that reflected a noticeable lack of ambition. Taking the frozen steps with incautious haste, he entered the quiet house, grateful for the warmth that enveloped him. Home. It was good to be home on this Christmas Eve when all around him fear and uncertainty threatened but he would not think of that now.
CHAPTER TWO
Chattanooga, Tennessee, December 1860
"Take a big breath." Clarissa inhaled deeply, her firm breasts straining against the top of her lacy bodice. "Now hold it." Just when she thought her lungs would burst for want of air, Polly jerked the corset strings tight and she gave a shallow gasp.
With practiced precision the two young women completed the familiar ritual. White arms lifted while black arms lowered layers of crinoline, and finally, the deep green velvet gown. Black hands hooked and buttoned and smoothed with graceful expertise. Then stepping back, Polly appraised her handiwork and pronounced it perfect.
Clarissa Giles Wakefield intently studied her mirrored image and saw no visible signs of the internal changes she already felt, except for the slightly fuller bosom that she had always coveted. Thanks to Polly's strenuous efforts, her narrow waist tapered to meet the swaying hoop skirt that hid her lower body without the slightest indication of the child she carried.
"Won't nobody hold a candle to you tonight, Missa." Polly reached to adjust a wisp of hair that had strayed from the blond curls cascading beneath the velvet bow that held them.
Clarissa turned warm brown eyes on the slave who had been given to her in childhood, for whom "Miss Clarissa" had been too large a mouthful to say, and who still addresse
d her by that early substitute name. "Do you really think so?"
"I know so," Polly nodded her head emphatically, "and Masta Malcolm gon' be the envy of all the menfolk in the family. Even before they know about the chile."
The corners of Clarissa's mouth drooped suddenly. "I just wish Father and Matilda and Lawton could be here to share the—"
"Now doan go spoiling your happy face. Tha's plenty of time for tellin' later. This baby not coming for a long spell yet. So, go on now and enjoy y'self."
Clarissa whirled and reached out her arms to embrace her servant. "I will, Polly. How could I be sad when I have my sister and you with me? Why, it's almost like I've half of Mimosa Manor here in Chattanooga."
Polly took a step backward. "Just look at you. Gettin' all wrinkled." She adjusted the folds of velvet with an exaggerated frown. "Hurry now. Don't keep Masta Malcolm waitin’."
"Merry Christmas, Polly."
"Merry Christmas, Missa."
Clarissa crossed the wide hallway and knocked softly at the door to the bedroom opposite the one she shared with her husband. "Angeline, are you ready to go down?" She opened the door and peeked inside where her younger sister was just completing her own preparation for the holiday dinner.
"Come in, Clarissa, and tell me if I look all right. I want to put my best foot forward, but I know my clothes are not very fashionable." She frowned at her image in the pier glass.
"Nonsense." Clarissa stepped into the room and came to stand behind her sister, noting their identical reflected height and blondness, then smiled. "You look lovely, Sister, and I'm so happy to have you here that I may actually cry for joy. Father allowing you to come and stay with me is the nicest Christmas present I could ever have."
"Well, you know he was only persuaded when Matilda convinced him that I would be able to find a suitable husband, like you did." She pursed her lips and turned her head to one side, then the other as she touched her perfectly coiffed curls. "I do think Polly styled my hair nicely, don't you?"
"It's perfect, and certain to turn the heads of all the eligible men at dinner," Clarissa assured her. "And I think our step-mother is right about finding a husband. Your chances of making a good match are much greater here in Chattanooga than at Mimosa Manor, especially since everyone in Kentucky is probably aware of our father's misfortune."
"If only he hadn't..." Angeline shook her head with such determination her curls bobbed. "But let's not think of such depressing things tonight. Do I really look all right?" She smoothed at an almost invisible wrinkle in the skirt of her pale blue satin dress. "Matilda remade this from one of our mother's old gowns, you know."
Clarissa met the troubled look in her sister's blue eyes with a reassuring smile and reached out to touch her face. "You look lovely," she repeated. "Come on, let's go down and join the festivities."
Hastily, Angeline pinched her cheeks whose color was already heightened by anticipation of the evening ahead, and followed Clarissa into the hallway where the sound of voices and laughter floated up from the lower level. Clarissa led the way to the wide stairs and gracefully maneuvered her voluminous skirts to the dimly-lit landing where she met a servant carrying a purple pelisse and matching muff.
As they passed, Clarissa raised her head, ready to offer a gracious smile and season's greetings, and was halted in mid-step by the look of pure hate blazing in the exotic dark eyes that bored into hers. The girl appeared no older than she, with straight, black hair framing faintly-tinted skin, and Clarissa recognized her as the personal maid of Malcolm's sister, Lydia. Her stiff lips moved automatically but the servant didn't acknowledge Clarissa's greeting as she swept past her.
"Who was that?" Angeline whispered as she joined Clarissa on the landing.
"She is my sister-in-law's slave," Clarissa told her in a low voice.
"Why did she look at you that way?" Angeline asked in a puzzled tone.
Clarissa ignored the question, gesturing toward the lower hall where Josiah and Florence Wakefield were exchanging handshakes and embraces with their only daughter and her husband. "See, Lydia and Sylvester have just arrived." She reached for Angeline's hand. "Come on, it's time for you to meet my new family."
Clarissa proudly introduced her sister to the elder Wakefields, their daughter and son-in-law, Sylvester Townsend and his mother and sister; then the group moved into the drawing room where other members of the Wakefield clan were already gathered. In front of the bay window a pine tree stood, its top touching the ceiling, its branches laden with exquisite hand-made decorations.
As she hesitated just inside the door, her eyes sought and found her handsome young husband standing near the fireplace, which was also draped in garlands of fragrant pine. A wave of apprehension swept over her at the sight of him, but she managed to control her emotions. He was engrossed in conversation with his brother and a man she didn't recognize, unaware of her presence as she made her way toward him, pulling Angeline with her.
"Malcolm?" She touched the sleeve of his black frock coat and he turned, steel-gray eyes flaring with irritation at being interrupted before he made a visible effort to mask it. His face was flushed, whether from the heat of the fire or the effects of the eggnog he was imbibing she couldn't discern, and his breath was heavy with the scent of bourbon as he bent to kiss her cheek.
"Ah, Clarissa, here you are." He took another long drink from the silver cup and motioned for a servant hovering nearby before he made the obligatory introductions. "I would like to present our cousin, Nathan Forsythe, lately returned from Europe. My beautiful wife, Clarissa."
As the young man who bore a strong resemblance to the Wakefield brothers bent low over her hand, Malcolm exchanged his empty cup for a full one, noticing Angeline for the first time. "And this is her equally beautiful sister, Angeline Giles, who has just this afternoon come from Kentucky to spend the holidays." He gestured with his cup toward a remarkably similar version of himself near the fireplace, "And this is my brother Talmage, currently at West Point."
While Talmage and Nathan acknowledged the introduction to Angeline, Malcolm took another cup from the tray and gave it to Clarissa. "Here, drink up. Harriet makes the best eggnog below the Mason-Dixon Line. Isn't that right, Luke?"
The uniformed black man nodded solemnly as Talmage reached for a cup and held it out to Angeline, who looked at it with indecision, then glanced at her sister. At Clarissa's barely perceptible nod, she accepted the cup and thanked him, then took a tentative sip.
"So, you come from Kentucky, do you?" Nathan asked and at her shy nod, continued. "I trust you had a good journey. My own travel from New York was less than comfortable, I might add, but I was so happy to be coming home for the holidays I scarcely minded the dirty, crowded trains and the horrible weather through the Northern States."
"Nor did I," Talmage added. "But then, I endure the ice and snow for months on end."
"Talmage is the youngest of our group so he's had to go it alone since the rest of us graduated from the academy," Nathan explained to Angeline. "Bad time to be up there now with all the talk of secession."
"Hear, hear, not a word of that on Christmas Eve," Malcolm said with exaggerated cheerfulness, raising his cup. "Let's eat, drink, and be merry."
"For tomorrow we die?" Nathan asked wryly, but dinner was announced before anyone could reply so he offered his arm to Angeline and they followed Clarissa and Malcolm into the splendid dining room.
As Clarissa looked around her, she marveled at the elegant damask drapes and sculptured polished woodwork that reflected the glimmering candles of the ornate chandelier suspended above the long mahogany table. A crystal bowl of poinsettias added a splash of crimson to the stark white linen cloth, the gleaming sliver, and the delicate flowered china.
At the head of the table, Josiah Wakefield, Chattanooga's wealthy steel baron, took his place, and Malcolm seated Clarissa to his father's right. Someday Malcolm, eldest son and heir, would sit where his father now sat, Clarissa reminded herself, and her
eyes moved to the opposite end where Florence Wakefield was being seated by her younger son. An image of herself sitting there, mistress of Whitehaven, caused her to shiver with both anticipation and dread. She had married well in spite of her poor chance of doing so, and now if she could help Angeline do the same, her father and Matilda would be greatly relieved.
Clarissa glanced at Angeline, ensconced between Talmage and Nathan, both eligible bachelors who seemed to be vying for her attention and felt optimistic about the future. It had been a good thing to insist on Angeline coming to Chattanooga. Malcolm assumed her sister's visit was just for the holidays, but she intended to convince him that she needed Angeline to keep her company during her confinement and through the birth of their child, and surely, by that time, Angeline would have made a suitable match and the question of her ever returning to Kentucky would be settled.
A retinue of servants, some borrowed for the occasion from the Townsend plantation in Rossville, moved back and forth from kitchen to table, bearing the delectable results of days of preparation. Baked ham, turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, deviled eggs, candied yams, turnip greens, scalloped potatoes, grits, corn bread, rolls, and varied relishes provided a bountiful array of choices to tempt Clarissa's finicky appetite, but she ate little.
Josiah Wakefield noticed and commented to her in an undertone, "You've scarcely touched your plate, my dear. You're not feeling ill, are you?"
"No, Father Wakefield. It's just...the excitement of the holidays, I think." She made an effort to look interested in her food, but it held no appeal for her. She had felt queasy for weeks now, and the symptoms showed no sign of disappearing even though Polly had assured her they were only temporary.
"Perhaps you'd like another glass of wine?" he smiled at her encouragingly.
"Oh, no, thank you."
Malcolm draped an arm over the back of her chair and leaned toward his father, then spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "Doesn't it seem strange, Father, that Clarissa eats less instead of more now that she's eating for two?"
