This Time Forever

by Linda Swift

  "Then Talmage—" Lydia began hopefully.

  "No, Lydia dear. I'm afraid our brother truly is dead. There's no doubt about it, for I was with him at the time of his death."

  "We got a telegram saying both of you died at Petersburg," Basil told him.

  Malcolm nodded. "You see, we were with General Lee at Petersburg, and Grant's army had put us under siege. At least, that was what we thought he was planning, but he'd already fooled Lee when he bypassed Richmond, so Talmage and I were sent to infiltrate the Union lines posing as deserters and find out for sure."

  "Oh, how dangerous," Jane Forsythe said.

  "And as we were crossing a field, we encountered two Union scouts. Talmage got one of them, but the other got him, and I drove a bayonet through the bastard." Gasps went up around the table but whether from the coarse language or the horror of the story was uncertain. Malcolm swaggered to his sister's chair, all eyes on him as he continued. "Then, I took one scout's identity and went into the Union lines, and that's where I've been ever since—spying on their every move."

  "How terribly exciting," Lydia gushed. "And how brave you were."

  "Yes, it was going very well until I got a touch of scarlet fever and they were planning to parole me home to Ohio. That's when I crossed back into Petersburg and they sent me to Sally Tompkins Hospital in Richmond, and then I came home."

  "Sally Tompkins Hospital?" Nathan asked. "That's where I was for a while."

  Malcolm looked at Nathan's crutches and seemed to comprehend his missing leg for the first time. "The bastards got you, too, eh, cousin?"

  "I only lost a leg." Nathan grinned. "My aim at the Yank was better."

  Malcolm suddenly looked around the group and asked with a puzzled frown. "Where's Father?"

  "He…uh…isn't well, Malcolm," Lydia answered quickly. "So he's abed at Whitehaven. We'll talk about it later."

  "And my other son? Where's he?"

  Polly, who had been standing in the doorway with the other servants since the appearance of Malcolm, brought Elliot forward and he looked at him a moment, tousled his blond head, and said with a smile. "He has the Wakefield eyes. A good sign."

  Florence now revived enough to express her joy at her son's sudden appearance and amid the happy confusion of Malcolm's homecoming, the wedding supper was completed. Afterward, Lydia invited the guests to assemble in the drawing room once more for singing carols before the gifts were opened.

  As they left the dining room, Malcolm addressed Clarissa in a mocking tone. "I want you to go and change into something besides that ugly dress. It's hardly suitable for a woman whose husband is very much alive."

  "But I don't have—"

  Mary Jane, who had overheard the exchange, quickly interjected, "Come on, Clarissa. You may wear something of mine."

  Clarissa numbly followed the new bride upstairs. She was a widow. And she had married Philip Burke. But if Malcolm was alive, then she had two husbands. Only Philip was not truly her husband at all. And that would make his child that she carried—no, she wouldn't think of it.

  In her bedroom, Mary Jane pulled an armful of bright gowns from her large armoire. "Take any one you like, Clarissa." She laid them on her bed and waited for Clarissa's decision. "Which one do you prefer?"

  Clarissa moistened her numb lips. "I don't care."

  "I know this must be an awful shock for you. Even if it is happy news." Mary Jane held a maroon satin flocked with velvet in front of Clarissa and continued. "I think this one would be nice."

  Clarissa allowed Mary Jane to help her remove her mourning dress, although she felt more like wearing it than ever before. The borrowed gown fit perfectly, and at any other time, she would have enjoyed its beauty. Her pale face looked even paler contrasted with the lush crimson, but she returned Mary Jane's smile of approval and together they went to join the others.

  After the singing and opening of gifts, the sleepy children were sent upstairs to bed. Then the guests were served the customary Madeira and rum-soaked fruit cake and the talk turned to the war.

  "What do you think of the situation in the East, Malcolm?" Basil asked.

  "The siege of Petersburg shows no signs of being over. The generals have bungled the entire campaign against Grant's armies." He motioned a servant to refill his glass. "Our men are sick, poorly clothed for the harsh winters, and don't have enough food or ammunition. And Jeff Davis does nothing about it." He downed the glass of Madeira and asked, "Is there nothing stronger in the house, Lydia?"

  "Of course, dear." She dispatched the ancient butler to the wine cellar for a bottle of bourbon.

  "President Davis is overwhelmed with disaster on all sides I'm afraid," Nathan said quietly. "City after city has been taken, the railroads are in shambles. The problems are not limited to the East, cousin."

  "With Atlanta, and now Savannah, lost to the enemy, I fear the Confederacy is done for," Basil added sadly.

  The butler returned with the bottle, and Malcolm poured a straight shot from it and began a new harangue. "That's just the kind of foolish talk that's defeating us, uncle! The civilians are not supporting our armies with guns and goods. And the damned politicians are too busy finding fault with each other to concentrate on the war."

  "I can't speak for the politicians, but I know that most of the slaves have deserted our plantations and there's no one to grow crops. We're doing the best we can, nephew."

  "Well, it is not good enough to win a war," Malcolm snarled and tossed back another shot of bourbon, then began a new tirade.

  Clarissa sat beside her husband, showing a calm demeanor while her mind was in utter turmoil. She could never leave Whitehaven now. Philip would be devastated to learn he had married another man's wife. And there was no legal way he could claim her, even if he should still want to do so. She was a bigamist, an adulteress. And that scandal would brand her children, as well as herself. If only she could make Malcolm think the child she carried was his. She was beginning her fourth month. Maybe he would never know, that is, if...The thought was repulsive, but it was the only hope she had. Resolutely, she turned her attention back to the talk of war and watched the level of the bourbon bottle as Malcolm drained it shot by shot.

  The newlyweds bade goodnight to all the guests and left the drawing room. Soon after, Malcolm got unsteadily to his feet and took her arm.

  "We should go up to bed, my beau'ful wife." He leered at her and she forced herself to smile. "Goo'nite all."

  Getting up the stairs was not an easy task with Malcolm weaving drunkenly beside her, but she finally managed. In the guest room, a lamp burned on the bedside table, and she closed the door and led him to the bed. Turning down the counterpane, she guided him onto the bed and helped him take off his coat and trousers, then removed the gown she wore. When she unfastened her crinolines and stood before him in her chemise and pantalets, he seemed to grow more sober.

  "Hot for me, are you?" he asked, and leered at her with bleary eyes.

  She took a deep breath, through gritted teeth forced out the single word. "Yes."

  "Then come'ere," he beckoned her with an uncoordinated wave of a limp hand while with his other hand he fumbled with the opening in his drawers. Freeing his engorged member from its restraint, he held it proudly in front of him and asked with a lopsided grin, "This what you want?"

  Staring in mesmerized revulsion, Clarissa swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and nodded.

  "Then come and get it." He lay back on the pillow and waited while she slowly walked toward him.

  Easing down beside him, she closed her eyes, willing him to be quick, willing herself to endure what had to be endured. She waited for what seemed a very long time and when he didn't touch her, she opened her eyes and saw that he was fast asleep, his mouth open with saliva drooling out one corner and all evidence of his turgid state now gone.

  Clarissa lay rigid until Malcolm's loud snores calmed her fears of waking him. But even when she arose and put out the lamp, sleep would not co
me. And in the early hours before dawn, she heard him wake and stumble out of bed, cursing as he groped for his clothes. She pretended sleep, but it was unnecessary, for Malcolm's thoughts were not on the wife whose bed he'd shared but the quadroon who waited in the slave quarters to welcome him home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rossville, December 1864

  Malcolm did not appear at breakfast where all the talk still revolved around his sudden resurrection from the dead.

  "Oh, my dear girl," Jane Forsythe gushed. "I know you must be simply beside yourself with joy."

  Clarissa nodded in agreement with at least part of the woman's comment. She ate almost nothing, but if anyone noticed, they attributed it to her excitement over her husband's return.

  "This is simply a miracle," Florence Wakefield said. "I still can't believe it is true."

  How I wish it wasn't, Clarissa said silently, then felt a pang of guilt engulf her. How could she wish Malcolm had stayed dead just because she didn't love him? God had already punished her for her wicked thoughts; had she learned nothing from that lesson?

  When the meal ended, Robert asked hopefully, "Mama, can I go to see the horses again before we go?"

  "May I, Robert," she reminded him again.

  He looked momentarily puzzled. "You already asked me, Mama, and I said Beau wouldn't mind, but you didn't come."

  "I'll go with him, Clarissa," Nathan offered. "We won't be long."

  "Thank you, Nathan." Clarissa watched Nathan as he limped from the room, Robert at his side. The war had robbed him of a limb and scarred his handsome face, but he was more whole than her husband who had lost nothing but his enthusiasm for the Cause.

  She called Polly from the kitchen and told her to prepare for their departure. Luke had been instructed to return for them before noon, and she was anxious to get away.

  "Will Masta Malcolm be goin' with us, Missa?" Polly asked with ill-concealed dread.

  "I don't know," she admitted and added silently, I hope not.

  Just as the others were leaving the table, Malcolm came into the dining room and ordered his breakfast to be served, then beckoned Clarissa to sit down with him.

  Lydia motioned a servant to fill her brother's cup with coffee and refill her own, then smiled at him from her place at the head of the table. "Malcolm, darling, I still can't believe you're really here."

  "Well, I won't be for long. I saw Luke at the gate with the carriage and I'm sure we'll be departing soon." He looked to Clarissa for confirmation. "Isn't that so, my dear wife?"

  "If you wish."

  "Is Mother going?" he inquired of Lydia.

  "Oh, Malcolm, Mother has stayed with me since Father's... illness. She just can't bear to see him the way he is. If it weren't for her laudanum, I think she would have suffered his fate, too."

  "Well, Nathan tells me there is only Harriet and Luke left at Whitehaven, except for my sons' mammy, and I need more servants than this to run a household."

  "I'm sure we can spare two or three of our people until you have a chance to find some Negroes of your own." She laughed derisively. "They will work for pay now, you know."

  "Fine." He accepted the plate of grits and ham that was set before him and continued. "I'd like to take Canaan with me. And to help with Father, I'd like Ruane."

  Lydia started to protest, but stopped herself. "Whomever you choose, Malcolm, you may have, of course."

  Clarissa sat unmoving, not betraying by so much as the blink of an eye the seething rage she felt. It wasn't enough that Malcolm had made little pretense of hiding from the family his attraction for the quadroon; now, he planned to establish her at Whitehaven in the same house with his wife and sons.

  When she could trust herself to speak in a normal tone, she rose from the table, "Please excuse me, Lydia. I must see to the packing."

  "Very well, dear."

  Clarissa could hear Malcolm's voice as she dragged herself wearily up the stairs, and she made a conscious effort to shut out the sound. Perhaps this was all a nightmare, and when she returned to Whitehaven everything would be all right again. But the cold, harsh truth would not allow her to wallow in this delusion. She could not escape the fact that nothing would ever be all right again.

  • ♥ •

  The carriage was crowded with its extra passengers on the return trip and Luke, with Canaan beside him, drove the horses like he was transporting a ghost. The old servant had reacted as if he had seen one when Malcolm first greeted him, and Clarissa had actually feared that his heart might not stand the shock.

  The slopes of the mountains were white with yesterday’s snow, and the slippery roads more hazardous from the heavy holiday travel. The sun was shining, but it added no warmth, only a blinding brightness to the landscape.

  Clarissa sat beside her husband with Ruane, Polly, and the children facing them while Robert kept up a rapid chatter most of the way home.

  "Papa, did you know that I can ride a horse?"

  "Really?"

  "Yes, and Beau can, too. We would have rided them today, but Canaan said they might fall down in the snow."

  "That’s true."

  "Papa, can—may I have a horse at home?"

  "Of course, Robert."

  "Malcolm, he’s too young—" Clarissa began, but he cut her off.

  "I’ll decide when my son has a horse."

  "But there’s not money for—"

  "You dare to tell me what there’s money for?" He looked at her disdainfully. "May I remind you that I am in charge of such matters, and from now on, it’s no concern of yours."

  Her face flushing with anger and embarrassment, she caught the smug look on the quadroon’s face and bit her lip to keep from replying. She would not humiliate herself by quarreling with her husband in front of the servants and her children. He would see soon enough for himself what condition Whitehaven was in.

  The ride seemed interminable, but finally they reached the city and Whitehaven. Canaan assisted them from the carriage while Luke went ahead to open the wide front door.

  "Welcome home, Masta Malcolm." The servant grinned broadly but Malcolm, eyes sweeping the bare hallway, ignored him.

  He continued on into the drawing room, stood for a moment as if disbelieving what he saw, then turned contemptuously to Clarissa.

  "What the hell does this mean? Where is the furniture?"

  She swallowed and tried to answer in a calm voice. "Some of it is upstairs. And some is stored in the attic and carriage house. We had to have room for the hospital cots—"

  "Then get these damned vermin-infested cots out of the house at once. And have the furniture returned and set to rights."

  "But what if more wounded—"

  "There will be no more stinking bloody men brought to this house. No wonder my mother chose to stay at Fleur-de-Lis. This place is not fit for human habitation." He turned and glared at the group behind him in the hallway. "Canaan, get our bags upstairs. Then get back down here on the double to help Luke with the furniture. Polly, go tell Harriet to prepare dinner for us. And I expect to eat it on the dining room table."

  "Yes, suh." Still carrying Elliot and leading Robert by the hand, she went toward the kitchen.

  Malcolm looked toward the stairs. "I may as well go up and greet my father. Where is he?"

  "In the master suite, of course." She followed her husband up the stairs, waiting at the door as he went into Josiah’s room.

  Josiah lay sleeping, a sheet looped around his body and tied to the headboard on either side of him. Malcolm turned and glared at her. "Why is my father tied to the bed like some wild animal?"

  "Because when no one can watch him, he sometimes gets up and wanders about, breaking things or trying to go down the steps. It’s for his own safety."

  "Father. Father, wake up." He bent and shook the old man gently. "It’s Malcolm. I’m home."

  Josiah’s eyes flew open and he struggled to sit up. "Ankees! Ankees! Hoot. Hoot."

  "Oh, my God."

&
nbsp; "Ankees! Hitehaen!" He thrashed about wildly as a horrified Malcolm backed away.

  "Father Wakefield, it’s all right." Clarissa crossed to the bed and took hold of Josiah’s shoulders. "You’ve been asleep and had a bad dream. But everything is all right, now. I’m here to take care of you." She eased him back against the pillow and he quieted. Then, she untied his restraints. "And look who I’ve brought with me. It’s your son. It’s Malcolm."

  "Acom?" He asked in a thin, high voice.

  "Yes, your son has come home." She motioned for Malcolm, and he approached the bed once again. "See, it’s Malcolm."

  For a brief instant, the old man’s eyes lighted with a gleam of recognition. Then, the light went out.

  "He knew you, Malcolm," she said softly. "For a moment, he really knew who you were."

  "Why didn’t you tell me he had gone crazy?" Malcolm asked angrily. "Why didn’t someone tell me?"

  "Malcolm," Clarissa said softly, standing and turning away from Josiah’s bed. "Your father has had a stroke. It has affected his limbs and his speech and some of his memory, but he’s much better now."

  "Better?" Malcolm scoffed. "He’s a blathering idiot and he’s better?"

  "Malcolm, please," Clarissa pleaded. "We don’t know how much he understands."

  "He understands nothing!" He looked at the pathetic figure with disgust. "Get him out of here. And tell Ruane to prepare this room for me."

  "But Malcolm, where—"

  "I don’t care where. It should be obvious to you that I am the master of Whitehaven now, and as such, I will occupy the room appropriate for me."

  "Malcolm, for God’s sake, don’t take even your father’s familiar room away from him. Hasn’t he lost enough already?"

  "I’m warning you, woman." He took a menacing step toward her. "I will not be crossed. Your days of doing as you damn well please are past. From now on, you do as I tell you, or suffer the consequences." He gave a low, ugly laugh. "And I promise you they won’t be to your liking."

  Without another word, she wheeled and went blindly down the stairs. "There is no justice in the world," she muttered darkly to herself. "Or else Malcolm Wakefield would have stayed dead and not come back to make our lives miserable."