This Time Forever

by Linda Swift

  • ♥ •

  Chattanooga, December 1864

  Clarissa and Malcolm sat at the long candlelit dining table on New Year’s Eve, the only sound in the room the rain blowing with a vengeance against the long windows. Whitehaven once more bore some semblance of its former glory, and a routine of Malcolm’s making had been established.

  "Luke, more bourbon." Malcolm waved an empty glass toward the servant who stood in the shadows, and he stepped forward to fill the glass from a half-empty bottle. "Just leave it and be gone."

  "Yes, suh."

  Clarissa pushed back her plate. "If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll—"

  "I will not excuse you, Clarissa, dear. I want you to stay and keep me company while I drown my sorrows." He raised the glass so that it caught the light from the flickering candles, and said in a jesting tone. "It’s no fun to drink alone."

  "Perhaps you’ve had enough already," Clarissa said softly.

  "Enough? There’s not enough in a thousand bottles to drown the nightmares I live with." He was quiet for a moment. "Listen, hear that rain? Do you know what it’s like to march for hours in rain like that? And then to sleep on the muddy ground with water pouring into a leaky tent stretched over your head?" He drained his glass.

  "No, Malcolm, but I’m sure it was terrible."

  He lighted a cigar and took several quick puffs. "Yes, but the snow was worse. To be so cold your feet are numb and the chill seeps all the way to the marrow of your bones. And corpses frozen stiff even before rigor mortis sets in." He laughed as he refilled the glass, drew deeply on his cigar, sending a cloud of smoke directly into her face. "But do you know what was even worse? The heat." He nodded his head vigorously. "Yes, the damned heat. It makes the swollen faces of the dead as black as charcoal, and they shine in the sunlight."

  "Please, Malcolm, don’t—"

  "Don’t?" He took another long drink and sloshed more bourbon into the glass. "I haven’t even told you about the battles, my innocent. Can you picture the thick smoke and the earth shaking from the thunder of cannons, and bursting shells, and caissons blown apart with splinters flying and horses torn and shrieking? And the men, their hoarse cries and screams of agony as they fall on top of each other?"

  "No, Malcolm," Clarissa said, and shook her head. "But I have seen the refuse of those battles. I’ve helped sew gaping holes left by grapeshot and Minie balls and sawed off useless arms and legs." She took a ragged breath. "And like yourself, I’ve watched my brother bleed to death."

  Ignoring her pain, he smiled slyly. "Ah, yes. Nathan told me how you bravely helped the Union surgeon. I hope you were well rewarded for your efforts."

  "My reward was in knowing I had helped to heal the suffering."

  "And where is your handsome Union surgeon now, my sweet? Did he leave you for another?"

  Clarissa rose from the table. "I will not have you speak to me that way."

  He grabbed her arm in a vise-like grip. "How many times must I remind you that I’ll speak to you whatever way I please?"

  Anger made Clarissa forsake the caution she had so carefully practiced the past week. "I’m not your slave! Lincoln has freed the slaves, you know!"

  "He can’t free what he doesn’t own, my dear." He put out his cigar with measured vicious jabs.

  "And you don’t own me, either." Her brown eyes shot fire.

  "I own you, all right. You’re mine to do with as I please." He pulled her closer and jerked her face up until their mouths were only inches apart and the smell of alcohol was nauseating. He laughed the ugly sound she had come to despise. "But don’t worry your pretty little head, I have the woman I want in my bed so you’re quite safe from me in that quarter."

  "In your father’s bed, you mean! It’s not enough that your poor father is banished from his rightful room, you dare to sleep there with your slut."

  The blow was so quick she had no chance to dodge it. "Ruane is no more slut than you. Staying here with a houseful of soldiers and your Yankee surgeon. Did you sleep with all of them, or just your fancy doctor?"

  "I—" Clarissa began but he cut her off.

  "And furthermore, Ruane is much more woman than you could ever be. Did you know her mother was a courtesan in New Orleans? And her grandmother is a Creole from the West Indies. And they have taught her well in the ways to please men that you could never even imagine. So, have no fear that I will bother you again."

  His words struck fear in Clarissa’s heart. She knew her only chance of safety for her unborn child lay in his not remembering what had happened the night he had returned.

  "I was good enough for you when you came back to Fleur-de-Lis," she bluffed. "You found your pleasure with me then."

  He thought for a moment. "If you say so, I don’t remember. I found my pleasure in a bottle first."

  "May I go now?" she asked contritely, feeling a suffocating need to get out of his sight.

  "Yes, go. And tell Ruane to join me."

  Unable to resist one last jab, Clarissa waited until she was out of range of his heavy hand. "Tell her yourself. Good night."

  Passing the piano, she averted her eyes, but the painful image of Philip seated there, playing, haunted the silent room.

  Upstairs, Clarissa checked on Josiah Wakefield and Canaan who slept in a chair beside him, then kissed her sleeping children who shared a room with Polly. Finally closing the door to her own bedroom, Clarissa thought about the scene with her drunken husband. Her life had become a living hell, but she had no choice except stay here until her child was born. It was the only way she could insure that all her children were safe from scandal. Then somehow, God help her, she would leave Malcolm and Whitehaven.

  But her immediate problem was telling Philip Burke about Malcolm. She had delayed as long as she dared. One letter from Philip had already arrived and been intercepted by Polly. She mustn’t take a chance on another being discovered by Malcolm. It would further arouse his suspicions and increase his accusations—and she could not afford either one.

  Clarissa went to the armoire and reached inside for the worn blue coat that never failed to give her comfort and bring vivid memories of a time when she was happy with Philip. She buried her face deep in its folds and cried until she had no more tears. Then pushing it back into the darkness, she forced herself to sit down at her desk to write the letter that would sever her ties with Philip Burke forever.

  Chattanooga, Tennessee

  December 31, 1864

  My dearest Philip,

  There is no easy way to break this news to you for it is not an easy thing for me to write nor will it be for you to read. My husband Malcolm is alive and has come home to Whitehaven, the report of his death being false. I have said nothing of my illegal marriage to you because I do not wish my children to bear the shame of a mother who is an adulteress and a bigamist. Nothing could be gained for either of us by revealing our union, and only much suffering would result.

  Know that I love you with all my heart and will always cherish what we had together. But I will remain with my husband and be a loyal wife and good mother to my children. If you need further proof of my intention to do my duty let me say that I am carrying my husband’s child.

  I will not be writing to you again, and I am asking that you do not try to contact me at any time in the future. I hope that you will forgive me for the unhappiness that I have caused you. And I pray that God will go with you and that you will find the happiness that you deserve.

  Loving you forever,

  Clarissa Wakefield

  • ♥ •

  Atlanta, Georgia, January 1865

  Stunned, Philip read the letter again. And again. At last, with trembling hands, he laid the letter on the table in front of him and cradled his head in his folded arms above it, his tears falling to dampen the rose-scented paper. It was not possible. Malcolm Wakefield was dead. He was her husband. God would not allow a thing like this to happen. Was it because he had coveted another man's wife that God had sent
the man back from the grave to punish him? Was it because he had spurned the love of Katherine Kingsley? He had done many things to deserve God's wrath, but surely, Clarissa had done nothing to merit such pain.

  He would crawl over hot coals to rescue her from the hell she must be going through. But he knew it was useless. She was determined to stay. And the child she carried was the final proof of that. For a long time he stayed like that, head in arms, breathing the faint rose scent of Clarissa even as her words pricked his heart with thorns.

  Philip put the letter in its envelope and placed it in his Bible. He looked around his tent and felt as if he were suffocating and knew what he had to do. With slow deliberation, he took a piece of paper and scrawled a note that would remove him from the safety of his present assignment and put him in the line of fire. If he was lucky, a bullet would take him out of his misery. Finished writing, he called an aide and dispatched the message to General Sherman asking to join the army preparing to march through South Carolina.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Chattanooga, May 1865

  Dogwood and purple plum dotted the variegated green slopes surrounding the battle-scarred city, and a glorious riot of color had burst forth from the flower beds and bushes that surrounded Whitehaven.

  Clarissa and Mary Jane sat on the veranda basking in the welcome warmth of the late spring morning.

  "It was so good of you to come and bring Beau with you, Mary Jane. I've longed to see you, but of course, I can't travel now." She put her hand on her swollen abdomen.

  "I simply had to share my wonderful news with you. But I see you have news, too." She frowned. "I'm expecting my baby in September as best I can figure, but there is no change in my figure yet and you...well, that must be your time, too?"

  Clarissa nodded, keeping up the charade of becoming pregnant after Malcolm returned. "I think with the first baby a woman's body doesn't show the change as early."

  "Perhaps not. You certainly know more about babies than I." Satisfied with Clarissa's explanation, Mary Jane went on. "Nathan is beside himself with joy. And so are his parents. It is good that we're living at Fleur-de-Lis instead of Cedarhurst, or I'm afraid they would spoil the baby terribly when it comes."

  "Do you want a boy or a girl, Mary Jane?"

  "Well, Nathan wants a boy, of course. And if it is, we'll name him Basil Lamar for our fathers."

  "And if you have a girl?"

  "We're not sure yet. I am already called by both our mothers' names. But there is plenty of time. We will think of something before October. Now, what about yours?"

  "It will be Talmage Lawton if it is a boy, and Dove Demanda if a girl."

  Mary Jane repeated the girl's name slowly. "Is this Malcolm's choice or yours?"

  "Mine. Malcolm didn't feel a girl was important enough to warrant a choice."

  "Men." Mary Jane made a wry face. "I don't know how they would perpetuate the splendid male species if it were not for the women they hold in such low esteem."

  Finding the subject too painful to continue, Clarissa asked, "How is everyone at Fleur-de-Lis?"

  "Fine. And Lydia is having a marvelous time planning balls and teas and all sorts of social events for the soldiers who are coming home." Mary Jane sighed. "It's been four long years since Nathan and Malcolm and Talmage and Sylvester went off the war. And what a difference those years have brought."

  "Yes," Clarissa said sadly. "Then there were four, now there are two."

  "And Nathan to carry a reminder of this awful time for the rest of his life." She hesitated, then continued. "And Malcolm, too, I think?"

  "Yes," Clarissa agreed. "Nathan has wounds that you can see, but Malcolm's wounds are invisible. He is as damaged as the Confederacy, and there is no hope of resurrection for either."

  "What a terrible end we've come to. Our president in chains and locked in a cell at Fort Monroe. I wouldn't be surprised if they hanged him."

  "At least they didn't shoot him down like poor Abe Lincoln. There is so much confusion in Washington I doubt we'll ever get things ironed out again."

  "Well, Nathan says the government intends to make things difficult for men of wealth and property. As if losing most of our finest young men and all our slaves wasn't hardship enough." She stopped, shook her head. "But just listen to us. The war is over, and it's spring, and we are expecting babies, so we have a lot to be thankful for, don't we?" She stood. "I'd like to see Mister Wakefield before dinner."

  Clarissa led the way inside. "You'll be surprised how much Father Wakefield has improved. He is walking alone now, and can even feed himself."

  "And is he..."

  "No," Clarissa. "There has been no change in his speech or reasoning yet."

  As they reached the stairway, Ruane came out of the master suite, and seeing them, paused a moment, then passed them on the stairs without a word. She wore a dressing gown which clung to her lithe body and the protrusion just below her thin waist was plainly obvious.

  Mary Jane drew her breath in sharply, then glanced at Clarissa who met her inquiring gaze with a slight nod. "Oh, dear God, how awful."

  "Yes, isn't it?"

  "It's the war," Mary Jane said softly. "It has made a mockery of marriage."

  "It certainly has," Clarissa agreed sadly, thinking of a different marriage than the one of which they spoke.

  It was late afternoon when Mary Jane and Beau bade Clarissa and her sons farewell and returned to Fleur-de-Lis with promises to come again before her condition prohibited travel. They watched until the carriage was out of sight, then Clarissa sent Robert and Elliot to find Polly and went out to pick a handful of jonquils. She placed the yellow blooms in a fruit jar at her brother's grave, then sat down in the gazebo to rest and get her breath. She was tiring easily of late, and felt her time was not far off.

  "So, I thought I'd find you here, mooning over that ugly hump of dirt."

  Keeping her eyes averted from the repulsive sight of her alcohol-ravaged husband, she asked evenly, "Are you speaking of my brother's grave?"

  "I am speaking of that hole in the ground where you so foolishly planted the bones of a Yankee traitor." He came into the gazebo and collapsed onto the bench opposite her. "But for your enlightenment, I have no intention of allowing this—this eyesore to remain. Whitehaven is not a cemetery and I won't have a damned Yankee's grave in the front yard."

  "Then send my brother's remains to Mimosa Manor," Clarissa insisted.

  "With pleasure, my dear wife. I'll have Luke dig up the coffin tomorrow."

  "Thank you. I'm sure Lawton's spirit will rest easier just knowing he's not where he isn't wanted." Clarissa stood quickly, and a sharp pain shot through her abdomen. She straightened and felt a now-familiar gush of warm liquid saturate her undergarments. "I—I think the baby—" Another pain took her breath.

  "Baby?" Malcolm frowned.

  "Yes," Clarissa gasped. "I think the baby is coming. Please help me inside."

  He stood, and she grasped his arm, and together they went toward the house.

  "Polly? Polly, where are you?" he called when they were inside.

  "Yes, suh?" Polly appeared at the top of the stairs and when she saw Clarissa hanging onto Malcolm's arm, came rushing down to take charge.

  "I'll send Canaan for the doctor," Malcolm told her.

  "No!" Clarissa gasped. "There isn't time," she stopped to take a deep breath and continued, "Polly can help me. Just get me upstairs."

  Between her husband and servant, Clarissa reached her bedroom, and then Polly dispatched Malcolm to give orders to Harriet to boil water.

  "Missa, this baby too early. We might ought let Masta Malcolm send for the doctah," Polly said with a worried expression as she exchanged Clarissa's day dress for a gown and helped her into bed.

  "No," Clarissa shook her head vehemently. "I don't want the doctor."

  "But what if this baby have to be took out like Major Burke done Masta Elliot?"

  "I think," she arched with the force of yet anot
her pain, "it will be fine."

  "Well, jes let me take a look and see." Polly lifted Clarissa's gown and gasped. "Oh, lord a'mercy. That baby head done trying to get out." She ran to the door. "Somebody, quick! I needs that watah!"

  Harriet stumbled into the room with a basin of hot water, and together, the two servants prepared the writhing woman for delivery of her child. Clarissa knew from the rapid pounding at the apex of her thighs that the labor would be soon over, and it gave her the strength to push harder with each pain.

  "Jes a little more, Missa. There, that all you need."

  A small cry filled the room, and Polly held up the glistening body of the newborn child. "You got a little girl, Missa." She righted the lustily crying baby and turned its small face toward Clarissa. "And she fine. Jes look at her."

  "She's beautiful," Clarissa said softly.

  Polly placed the baby on Clarissa's stomach and severed the binding cord, then took her away to be bathed while Harriet changed the bedding.

  Then, wrapped in swaddling clothes, the baby was placed at Clarissa's breast. She pulled the blanket back and marveled at the abundance of black hair that capped the perfectly formed head and her heart stood still when she looked into the replica of Philip Burke's deep blue eyes. "Hello, Dove Demanda. Welcome to the world," she whispered.

  "She so big, Missa," Polly said with puzzlement. "Not like a baby come this early." Her eyes met Clarissa's with an unspoken question and in the silence that revealed the answer her expression became troubled. "Lord hep us if Masta Mal—"

  "You'd better go tell him he can see the baby now," Clarissa said with resignation, not wanting to tax her husband's patience nor prolong her own anxiety a minute longer. "Either he will accept the child as his or he will reject her. The matter is in God's hands, now."

  "Yes, Missa." Polly cast a worried glance at the infant nursing at her mother's breast and left the room. Moments later, she was back, relief evident on her face.