Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells

by Gilbert, Morris

  He looked down at her, admiring the perfect skin and the smoothness of her shoulder. “Why not, Ellen? Don’t you think I could be a good soldier?”

  “You would be good at anything, Clay Rocklin,” Ellen said instantly. “But you are different from Gideon. He doesn’t mind the monotony and the formality of a soldier’s life. You have a free spirit. A life like that would be misery for you.”

  He was startled at her perception but shook his head. “Father wishes I were a little more disciplined.” He grinned briefly. “And Mother thinks my ‘free spirit’ is sinful. I’m a pretty big disappointment to them. Matter of fact, both of them wish I were more like Gid.”

  “As much as I admire your parents,” Ellen said, “I don’t think they’re right in this case. The worst thing a parent can do is to try to make a child into something he’s not. Wives make that mistake, too, don’t they? A man has to be what he is, Clay. And what your parents don’t see is that this is just a time for you to explore the world. Young people have to touch the world, and that means the bad as well as the good.”

  Clay was fascinated by her thinking—it was exactly the same thing he had said to himself many times. “What about you, Ellen?” he demanded. “What kind of life do you want?”

  She smiled then, saying, “I’m like you, Clay. I want all that life has. It’s soon over, isn’t it? When I am old, I want to say, ‘I’ve had an exciting journey. I didn’t refuse life because I was afraid of what people would say.’” Then she laughed out loud, in a charming manner. “I’ve shocked you, haven’t I, Clay? Women aren’t supposed to even think such things, much less say them to a man!”

  Clay suddenly pulled her closer, excited by her manner and by the pressure of her full figure. “You’re quite a woman, Ellen,” he whispered, and as they danced on, he forgot about Gid and Melanie, which was exactly what Ellen wished.

  Melanie had not been at all displeased with the way Gideon had stepped in to take her out on the dance floor. As he held her, she was very conscious of the strength of his arms. “My, you’ve changed, Gid,” she said with a smile. “You couldn’t have done that two years ago. Are you sure you’ve been studying guns and marching and all that, and not courting those Yankee girls?”

  Gid grinned suddenly. “My life’s been one constant series of balls and picnics with beautiful women since I went to the Point,” he said with a nod. “We have special classes in ballroom dancing and the fine points of courtship. Should have gone there years ago!” He pulled her closer, dropped his voice, and said, “Right now, page 84 in the manual on courtship would advise, ‘As soon as you have wooed the young lady away from the lesser men, take her out to the garden for a breath of fresh air.’”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that!” Melanie protested, but scant minutes later she found herself in the same arbor where she’d stood with Clay a few hours earlier. The night was so clear that the silver globe of the moon seemed huge against the velvety night sky. The music came to them, thin and faint, from the ballroom. The happy sound of laughter drifting on the wind was pleasant.

  They stood there looking out over the rolling hills, and finally Melanie asked, “Well, what does your old manual say to do now?”

  “This—,” Gid said firmly and took her in his arms. It caught her off guard, for he had always been rather shy. She had known, in the way that beautiful young ladies know such things, that he liked her, but she had never been able to draw him out. As he kissed her, her idea that he had been without fire left her. There was nothing insipid in his manner now!

  She pulled away, leaned back in his arms, and whispered, “Why, Gid! You’ve never done such a thing before!”

  Gid stood there, taking in the beauty of her face, and then said slowly, “I was always afraid you’d laugh at me, Mellie. You were always the prettiest girl around. Every fellow wanted to be your beau. You could have had any of them. Still could,” he added; then a light of determination came to his eye. “But you’re going to have to run me off this time! I haven’t read any manuals on how to court a girl, Mellie. There was never anyone I wanted. But I love you. Always have, I think, since the first time Father brought me to Gracefield. I was nine, and the first time I saw you, I think I just fell in love.”

  “Oh, Gid, that’s not possible!”

  “I think it is,” he said, and there was a rocklike certainty in his manner that made her nervous. She was accustomed to light flirtations, but Gideon Rocklin, she saw, would pursue a woman with the same dogged determination he had used to get to the top of his class at West Point. “I guess that’s about the only plan I have for courting you, Mellie,” he said quietly. “Just to say I love you. And to promise that if you marry me, I’ll do everything under God’s heaven to make you happy.” He shrugged slightly, adding, “I don’t cut a very romantic figure. I know that.”

  Melanie understood at once that he was thinking of Clay, who cut a very romantic figure. The seriousness on Gid’s face sobered her as she stood still in his arms. Finally she sighed, “Well, Gid, a romantic figure isn’t everything.” Then, knowing that it was time to break the scene off, she came up with a smile. “But I’ll expect a little more in the way of courtship than a discussion of military tactics!”

  Her remark brought a smile to his lips. Nodding, he said, “Maybe I’d better buy a manual on courtship, after all.”

  As she drew him down the stone walk, she glanced up at him. “No, you’re doing fine, Cadet Rocklin. Do carry on!” They stepped inside and at once were engulfed by a world of music and color.

  CHAPTER 2

  A CLOUD THE SIZE OF A MAN’S HAND

  Gracefield Plantation was a little world dwarfed by the rolling hills of Virginia, yet it was complete in its workings. No tangible wall surrounded it, yet in some powerful spiritual manner, its limits were marked in the minds of the denizens who spent their lives within its boundaries. Even as a ship rolled onward over a trackless ocean with nothing to mark its progress, so Gracefield moved through time. The family and the slaves knew of the larger world outside Gracefield’s borders, but for them its existence was vague and hazy—as was the distant shore to the sailor whose life was confined to the bobbing ship on the ocean.

  Springtime and summer, fall and winter passed over the little world. Children were born; the aged died. Often songs of joy, such as the happy shouting of slaves in their Sunday meetings or the jig dances of the parties, filled the air. At other times the songs were slow and sad—when loved ones were lowered into the ground and covered over with the black earth, or when tragedy struck and the sound of weeping scored the long nights.

  In all of this, though, there was order, for Gracefield was a microcosm of the larger world of men. Noah Rocklin was the archetypal ruler: master, potentate, king, prince, emperor, congress, parliament, court. He ruled Gracefield with the power of a despot, and the Big House was no less the seat of authority than the Vatican or Buckingham Palace. Though he was growing old and the reins of power were slipping into other, more youthful hands, there was the certain knowledge that when Noah Rocklin loosened his hands for the last time, there would be no loss of the order he had kept. Others would be there to guide, to direct, to govern.

  Nowhere was the order of Gracefield more evident than in the world of the slaves, whose sweat sustained the kingdom of the Rocklins. For within their ranks was a rigid hierarchy. Those who toiled in the long rows of white cotton were the base. Without them, there would be no Gracefield, for cotton and rice could only be grown by many hands. The field slaves had no need of skill; all that such work required were a strong back and endurance. In some minds, the less they knew, the better suited they were for the endless monotony of the task. What were dreams to a slave who went to the fields before dawn and picked cotton from a hunched position until it was too dark to see, with only a brief thirty-minute break to gobble down a dry piece of corn bread and swallow a drink of tepid water?

  The second class of slaves consisted of those who had mastered some sort of skill.
Such a slave was Box, a tall, strong Negro who was the best blacksmith at Gracefield. He was such a valuable part of the place that no one would have suggested he ever demean himself by going to the fields. As for his wife, Carrie, she enjoyed a status envied by the wives of mere field hands.

  The aristocracy, however, of the world of the slave was the house slave—those who served as maids for the ladies of the Big House, cleaned the mansion, or cooked and served the meals for the white masters. These workers, it must be confessed, often were swollen with pride, feeling that the Negroes who worked the fields were far beneath them.

  Still, even within the exalted positions of the house slaves, adamant lines were drawn. And Dorrie, a tall, heavy woman of thirty-seven, ruled with iron authority. Charlotte Rocklin had chosen Dorrie at the age of six, seeing in the child a quickness of mind that was lacking in others. As the years had passed, Dorrie had learned every skill of keeping a large house in order. She had served as cleaning maid, kitchen helper, ladies’ maid, and cook. Technically, she was still the cook—but most of the actual cooking was done by a thin woman named Dulcie.

  Charlotte Rocklin was, of course, the titular mistress of Gracefield, but it was Dorrie who saw to the seemingly endless details of the Big House. And it was a rare thing for the two women to disagree over matters, for if anything, Dorrie was far stricter in running the mansion than Charlotte herself. Dorrie was a shrewd woman who, over the years, had built up a system that worked well for her. She had married a tall, handsome field hand named Zander, and through careful and discreet manipulation had gotten him installed as butler. Their sixteen-year-old daughter, Cleo, worked in the kitchen; their other daughter, Lutie, was a housemaid. Their twelve-year-old son, Moses, was the stable boy.

  The morning after the ball, Dorrie had driven the house slaves hard, so that by noon the house was clean and sparkling. Then, after a quick break, she routed them out again, her large eyes sharp and her voice sharper. Coming upon Cleo and Lutie sitting outside on a bench sipping lemonade left over from the ball, she lit into them.

  “Git yourself in dis house! Whut you mean sippin’ dat lemonade? You know dat ain’t fo’ you!”

  “Aw, Mama,” Cleo complained. “It was lef’ over from the party!”

  Dorrie snatched the pitcher from Cleo and cuffed her across the head. “De party ain’t ovah yet, and you know it. Now you git them potatoes peeled or I’ll do some peelin’ my own self! And you, Lutie, go make up de yeller room.”

  “Who it for?”

  Dorrie gave the fourteen-year-old an impatient shove. “Whut diff’rence it make? You just clean it up good.” Then she relented, saying, “Marse Mark come dis morning, and Miz Charlotte tole me dat her baby boy comin’ in anytime.”

  She had entered the kitchen as she spoke this, and Zander lifted his head to stare at her. “I didn’t know dat.” He was sitting on a high stool by the counter, carefully peeling potatoes, wearing a white apron over his black pants and white shirt. “Marse Noah threatened to run him off wif a shotgun do he come back.”

  Mark, the “baby” Dorrie had mentioned, was the youngest son of Noah and Charlotte Rocklin. He was twenty-nine years old, but to Dorrie he was still the baby. She had been almost a mother to him, and he had broken her heart as he had the hearts of his parents by his wild ways. A rebel from the time he could walk, he had brought such heartache to the Rocklins that Noah had finally thrown him out of the house. He had written from time to time and even visited, but his visits were always tense affairs for everyone in the family.

  “Lemme see,” Zander said. “Why, it’s been three years since Marse Mark been heah, ain’t it now?” He studied a half-peeled potato, carefully cut a peeling from it, then grinned. “Whoo, now! Whut dat boy been and done dis time!”

  “You shut!” Dorrie said sharply, for she would never allow anyone to criticize the young man in her presence. “And you bettah get dat good silver polished—and we gonna have de good plates, too, for supper.”

  Zander stared at her curiously. “If Miss Marianne come, it’ll be de fust time de whole family’s et together in a mighty long time.” A doubtful looked crossed his face, and he put down the bowl of potatoes, then said, “I hope dey ain’t no big fuss lak de last time they all got together. Lawd! I thought dey was gonna start shootin’!”

  Dorrie glanced around to where Dulcie and Cleo were working at the far end of the kitchen. “I tole you to shut!” she whispered. “They ain’t gonna be no fighting.”

  Zander took off his apron, folded it carefully, then put it on the counter. He brushed the front of his shirt and pants, then straightened up to his full height. “Well, old woman,” he said slowly, “if dem Black Rocklins gits through a meal without a fuss—it’ll be ‘bout the first time dat ever com about!”

  Noah Rocklin’s “study” was filled with a great many possessions—but few of them were books. One walnut bookshelf occupied a space along the west wall, and it was packed with books and magazines. Most were manuals dealing with some aspect of farming; the others dealt with history or law. The rest of the room was packed with mementos of Noah’s lifetime. More than fifty guns, including rifles, shotguns, and pistols of all sorts, took prominence. The weapons gleamed in the afternoon sun that was streaming through the dormer window. It was Jacob’s job to keep the guns well polished, and he took pride in this task. Paintings were hung randomly; most of them of family, but some of statesmen, generally from Virginia.

  But Noah was not looking at his guns or souvenirs as he sat in his worn leather chair behind a huge flattop pine desk. He was considering his children. They were all there, all five of them, and it gave him a strange feeling to see them together. Glancing at Charlotte, who sat beside him in a straight chair, he saw that she shared that same feeling. Noah and Charlotte Rocklin were closer than most married couples. Always had been—but in the later years, their devotion had grown even deeper. She was, at sixty, more beautiful than she had been when he married her. Silver showed in her blond hair, and the dark blue eyes were not as bright as when they had married—but no matter! In Noah’s eyes, his Charlotte was still the fairest of all women.

  Sensing Noah’s emotion at seeing all the family together, Charlotte reached out and put her hand on his forearm. Though they never spoke of it, she realized that he was a sick man. Steadfastly she refused to envision life without him and lived each day as if it were forever. Now she gave him a quick smile, then turned toward the children, her quick mind going over each of them—what they were, and what she and Noah longed for them to be.

  Stephen, the steady one. The firstborn and the one she worried about the least. He was larger than she remembered, a solid man, strong and determined. His wife, Ruth, was an attractive woman, but she never had accepted the family. It had been a wrench when Stephen had left to make his life in Washington. Noah had grieved, but silently, speaking only to his wife of it.

  Thomas, who could never find his way. Charlotte studied the handsome face of her second-born, admiring his perfect features. If only he could settle down! He had always been jealous of Stephen. Charlotte thought that he longed for the steadiness in his brother, which was sadly lacking in himself. But it was not too late. He was only forty years old. Again the hope flared in Charlotte that somehow this handsome, gifted man would awaken to the potential that God had given him. Glancing quickly at Thomas’s wife, Susanna, Charlotte gave a fervent prayer of thanksgiving, for from the moment Thomas had married her, both Noah and Charlotte knew that if Thomas Rocklin were ever to become a complete man, it would be this woman who would show him the way.

  Mason, the lonely one. Lost because when his wife died, most of him died with her. Nothing had given Charlotte more satisfaction than Mason’s marriage to Jane Dent. It was a pairing made in heaven. Then she died, along with the child she tried to bring into the world, and the life went out of Mason’s dark blue eyes. It’s been seven years, Charlotte thought, and from all reports, he’s never even looked at another woman. He had fled Gracef
ield, and all the memories of Jane that it held, by going to join Stephen in Washington. But even his success in the business world had not given him any joy.

  Marianne, the only daughter. She was blessed with Thomas’s dark good looks and Stephen’s determination. Tall and willowy, she could have had her pick of the youngbloods of Richmond. But she had married Claude Bristol. He was sitting beside his wife now, the French ancestry plain in his thin face. Too fond of cards and fast horses, he was dissatisfied with life at Gracefield, but tied to it by his inability to find anything more comfortable. “He’s a weak man,” Noah had once said to Charlotte. But he was Marianne’s choice, and never did she by word or expression reveal any regret over her choice.

  Mark, the wild one. At twenty-nine he looked exactly as his father had looked at that age: six feet one inch tall, with black hair and dark eyes. He was quick-witted, intelligent, charming—and lost! Of all their children, Charlotte and Noah knew this one the least. His early years had been a torment for them, and even now Charlotte felt a dull ache, looking at him and grieving over what might have been. She knew he was a gambler on a Mississippi riverboat, and that was less dishonorable than some professions he had followed. She had not seen him for three years, and although the marks of dissipation were not on his face, his eyes were empty, and there was a hollowness in his manner.

  Jacob came in bearing a tray. He poured coffee from the massive silver pot, and Mark said, “Jacob, I hope this coffee is better than the stuff you used to make.”

  The wrinkled face of the old slave was immobile as he looked at the young man, but a light of humor came to his brown eyes. “I ain’t had no complaints—not since you left, Marse Mark.”

  “Don’t try to get one on Jake, Mark,” Claude Bristol laughed. He had fine teeth and smiled as he looked at the slave. “He’s the one who caught you and me gambling with the Huger boys out behind the slave quarters, remember?”