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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Bushrod laughed and slapped Tate on the back. “You going to be a pig farmer, Devoe? You can’t court that Debbie girl of yours smelling like pigs!”

  A laugh went around the room, with Devoe Tate laughing at himself, but Clay noticed that he was sober the rest of the evening. As they all moved out of the billiard room later, Devoe said quietly, “Clay, be all right if I come over and talk to you this week?”

  “Anytime, Devoe.”

  The ball was in full swing, with the dancers moving across the floor to the sound of music. To Clay’s surprise, Ellen came to him at once, demanding, “Dance with me!”

  He had no chance to refuse, for she had practically thrown herself into his arms. She was a marvelous dancer, and as they moved around the floor, she was humming along with the waltz tune. There was a happy expression on her face, and in the candlelight she looked much younger. Suddenly she looked at him, asking, “Why are you staring at me, Clay?”

  “Didn’t mean to, Ellen,” he apologized. “I’m not much of a dancer, you know. Have to keep my mind on it or I’ll be walking all over your feet.”

  “You’re a good dancer,” she answered. She had forced him to dance with her simply to make their charade more believable. One of her women friends had taunted her, “That good-looking husband of yours doesn’t pay enough attention to you, Ellen. You better keep a tighter rein on him, or he might run off with one of these Richmond belles!”

  This was the closest she had been to her husband since he’d returned to Gracefield, and it gave her a queer feeling to be in his arms. He is fine-looking, she thought, looking up into his face. But then, he always had been the best-looking man she’d ever known. He was one of the tallest men in the room, and his coal black hair gleamed richly, complementing his rich tan. His face was still smooth and unlined, his features strong and clear.

  His arms were strong, and more than once he pressed against her in the dance, causing her to examine him carefully—but he had a preoccupied look on his face. When he had come home, she had assumed that he would eventually come back to her. She had informed him that she would never have anything to do with him, but as the weeks wore on, she had known she would relax as he tried to make up to her. Finally she would permit him back into her life and into her bed. That had been her plan, but it had never happened.

  He had remained in the summerhouse, fixing it up, adding on to it, and giving every indication of staying there on a permanent basis. He was always polite and even considerate to her, but never showed the least interest in her as a woman. This had irked Ellen, and once or twice she had pressed against him on some pretext, but he had never seemed to notice. She feared that he had heard of her affairs in Richmond, but he never mentioned it if he had. Then she began to watch him closely, suspecting that he was seeing some woman, but it was obvious that he was not. He never went anywhere except to church, and then always with his parents, and with their own children when he could persuade her to send them.

  He looked at her, smiled, and said, “It’s a nice dance. And you look very attractive.” His compliment gave her an unexpected pleasure. She moved closer to him, but then the dance was over and he took her to the refreshment table.

  He was getting her a glass of punch when there was a muffled shout, and when they turned to look, Sam Decosta, the editor of the Richmond News, came running into the room, his hair wild and his eyes wilder.

  “Lincoln has won!” he shouted, waving a telegram over his head. “It’s all over! Lincoln is the new president.”

  The room was alive with talk but not with cheers. A man shouted, “Let the baboon be president! He won’t be our president! We’ll take care of that!”

  A roar went up, and for the next hour there was bedlam. Clay marveled at what was happening. The entire South hated Lincoln, and many leaders had vowed that if he was elected they’d lead their states out of the Union. Yet here the people of Richmond were, shouting and yelling and drinking toasts as if they had won a great victory!

  He spoke with his uncle Claude Bristol about it. He had always liked Claude, preferring him to Brad Franklin, his hotheaded brother-in-law. “I just don’t understand it, Claude,” he said, speaking loudly to be heard. “What’s everyone so excited about? Don’t they know this probably means war?”

  Claude cast a weary eye over the crowd. He was fifty-five years old, and years of hard living had worn him thin. He had been a sorrow to Clay’s aunt Marianne, for there was little substance to him. He was, at the core, a degenerate—but there was a genteel quality in his manner that caused him to be so discreet in his affairs that they never became public. He had charm and, surprisingly, some insight. “It’s a release, Clay,” he said. “The tension is gone. Nobody knows what the future will bring, but at least the pressure is gone. From now on the South knows what it will do, and it’s always easier when you’ve made up your mind.”

  Clay was depressed, and as soon as he could, he collected his family and took them back to Gracefield. He sat glumly as Dent spoke excitedly about the future. Was I ever that young and so sure of everything? he wondered, feeling about a thousand years old.

  His parents were still at the ball, and Clay was glad that Highboy, the oldest son of Box, the blacksmith, was there to unhitch the team. “Good night,” he said and moved away down the path that led to his house. It was not, he thought as he entered, the summerhouse any longer, but Clay’s house. The slaves called it that, and the family had taken it up.

  He built up a small fire and made a pot of coffee. He removed his suit, then put on a pair of old cotton trousers and sat down at the table. He was tired but not sleepy, so he worked on the books for the next hour.

  The sound of tapping on the door startled him, and he came to his feet quickly. It was unusual for anyone to come to his house this late, so he picked up the pistol he kept on top of the mantel and demanded, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me—Ellen. Let me in, Clay.”

  He opened the door, and she came in at once. “What’s wrong?” he asked, turning to replace the pistol.

  She was wearing a thick wool coat, and her cheeks were flushed. She looked around the room, saying, “I haven’t been here in a long time. We stayed here once, you remember? When we had the reunion and the house was full.”

  He nodded but asked, “Is something wrong, Ellen? One of the children sick?”

  She seemed embarrassed and shook her head. “No. Nobody’s sick. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  He studied her thoughtfully, thinking it strange that she would come so late. “Well, sit down. I’ve got some coffee on.”

  He got her a cup of coffee, but when he brought it to her, she took only a sip, then set it down absently. She began to talk of the ball and how exciting it had been. Her cheeks were red, and Clay knew she had been drinking, but he said nothing.

  Finally she said, “It’s hot in here, Clay,” and threw off her coat. She was wearing only a cotton robe over her nightgown, and when he stared at her, she said quickly, “I was in bed, but I couldn’t sleep, so I just threw on my overcoat and came here.”

  Then she got up and began walking around the room, talking aimlessly about the books, the furniture, and how well he’d fixed the place up. She seemed nervous, which was unusual for her. She had taken extra care with her hair, and she smoothed her hand over it as she spoke. Finally she seemed to run out of words. She bit her lower lip, then came over to stand in front of him. He got to his feet, and she suddenly leaned forward.

  “Clay—!” she whispered, pulling at him. “I’m your wife! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  It was a trying moment for Clay Rocklin, for he had lived a long time without women. Her body lay against him, and her lips were parted as she whispered, “Love me, Clay! Like you used to!”

  Clay knew that Ellen had no love for him. He guessed that she saw him as a challenge, that she wanted him only to prove that she was still desirable. And she was desirable, no denying that! Clay stood there struggling with
the hungers that he had kept under strict control for so long. There was nothing wrong with taking her; she was his wife, after all.

  Yet he knew instinctively that he must not touch her. She represented a way of life he could not share. If he resumed his relationship with her, he would be in a bondage that he knew he could not endure and would never escape. She would devour him, as a female praying mantis devours her mate.

  “Ellen, we’re past all that,” he said and stepped away from her. He tried to make his rejection less harsh by saying, “You don’t need me. I’d make you miserable. It’s better if we keep on just as we are.”

  If he had touched her with a hot iron, the effect would not have been greatly different. She turned pale, and after one moment of standing before him in shocked silence, not moving at all, she suddenly drew her hand back and slapped him across the face, screaming curses at him.

  Clay stood there, not moving, and she slapped him twice more. Then she grabbed her coat and ran out of the house. He could hear her curses as she ran down the path. They grew faint, and still he stood there, until finally he turned rigid. He knew this was not the end of it. She would never let him have a moment’s peace, not now.

  Finally taking a deep breath, he picked up the Bible he kept on the table and began to read.

  When Deborah Steele heard that her uncle Gideon was going to move his family to Virginia, she immediately mounted a crusade to get herself invited. Deborah, at the age of eighteen, had learned to get what she wanted as a rule. She got some of that from her father, Amos, who was a minister but also an abolitionist. He had taught his three sons, Patrick, Colin, and Clinton, and his daughter, as well, that it was displeasing to the Lord to go at anything halfheartedly. “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might,” was a scripture that had molded his own life. He had managed to pass that message along to all his children except Colin, who took life less seriously than his father liked.

  Deborah had been educated at Rev. Charles Finney’s Oberlin College, where she had become an admirer of the great evangelist. The two strongest men she knew were both devoted to freeing the slaves, and it was not surprising that she became an abolitionist at an early age.

  When she had gone to Oberlin at the age of sixteen, she had been one of the youngest students. If her father had not been one of Finney’s strongest supporters for years, she would not have been accepted. Even then, the president had examined her long and hard, testing her morals, her intelligence, and her determination. In the end, he had admitted her.

  Life at Oberlin had been exciting; Deborah had met the men and women who were at the head of the abolition movement, including William Lloyd Garrison, Frederick Douglass, and Theodore Parker. Deborah’s youth and beauty made her stand out, and when she proved that she could hold her own intellectually with the best at Oberlin, she was busy and happy.

  But college was over now, and Deborah found that there was no excitement in being a former student. She accompanied her father to meetings, but he was a busy man, and she felt that she had been marooned on a desert island.

  Then her cousin Tyler, Uncle Gideon’s oldest son, had told her that his father was being transferred to South Carolina, and his mother was going to visit Uncle Thomas and Aunt Susanna before joining Gideon at Charleston. It was like a light coming on in a dark room!

  I’ll go with them and study the terrible lot of the slaves firsthand! Deborah’s fertile imagination at once pounced on the germ of a thought, and within two hours, her plan was fully grown. She had to convince her own parents and her uncle and aunt, but she had no doubt of success. Being a very honest young woman, she freely acknowledged that she had learned early to get her own way. Being the only girl among six boys (counting Gideon and Melanie’s three boys and her own three brothers), she had been a spoiled pet all her life. It had not ruined her, but she had learned that there were certain things she could do to get her own way. Though she had never formulated this knowledge into a written code, she practiced the principle of it on certain occasions.

  In this case, success fell to her like a ripe apple. She had simply gone to her father and smiled at him, twisting the button on his coat, and said, “Father, do you think I could be of any help to the movement by doing some primary research on the terrible life of the slaves?” He had thought she meant in a library, but she had fluffed his side whiskers, saying innocently, “That’s been done, hasn’t it? But do you know what I thought of? I could go to Richmond with Aunt Mellie. She’s always begged me to go with her for a visit. Perhaps I should do it. Then I could see slavery firsthand, and just think of the material I could get done for your book!”

  Amos Steele could handle a large congregation, an angry mob, or almost anything else—but he was easy pickings for his daughter. Before she was finished with him, he was totally convinced that the whole thing had been his idea! He plunged in with his abnormal energy, and before the sun went down, he had convinced his wife that Deborah should go; visited his sister-in-law Melanie Rocklin and admitted that he had been wrong to prevent Deborah from visiting her family in Richmond; gained Gid’s permission for Deborah’s visit; and bought a new set of luggage for her.

  Deborah threw her arms around his neck and kissed him warmly. “Oh, Father, you’re so wonderful!”

  Steele hesitated, then said, “Deborah, you know the scripture says a beautiful woman without discretion is like a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout. So you must be discreet while doing your work there for the movement.”

  “But, Father, they know I’m an abolitionist!”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to wear a sign that says in bold print, ‘I am here to study the cruel treatment of slaves’!”

  Deborah got a sudden vision of herself wearing that sign and giggled. “Of course not, Father. That would be silly.”

  “I’m serious, Deborah. You could do great harm to our relatives there if anyone found out about your study. You are a very impulsive young woman, and you’ll see things there that will anger you. You’ll want to step in and right the wrongs. But you must not! You must always remember that you can serve the best interest of those poor people by taking the long view. The book will stir the people of our country, both in the South and in the North. There need not be a war, for the South can be reached and won without bloodshed.”

  “I’ll remember, Father,” Deborah said, nodding.

  She left the next week, on the twenty-first of November, never suspecting as she got on the train with the rest of the family that her uncle Gideon had been assigned to serve under Major Robert Anderson. And she did not know that Major Anderson was ordered to man a fort located at the entrance to the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina.

  Nor did she know that this fort—Fort Sumter—would be the first place to feel the winds of war.

  CHAPTER 20

  KISSING COUSINS

  Deborah Steele came to the South with an adamant predisposition to dislike everything there, but she found that she could not do it. For one thing, the Rocklins of Gracefield were such open, warmhearted people that she could not help liking them. The twins, David and Denton, were gone on a hunting trip, but she found Lowell and Rena to be as well bred as any Yankee children their age. Her great-aunt Susanna Rocklin was especially charming, and by the end of three days at the big plantation, Deborah felt that she had known the older woman forever. She liked Thomas Rocklin, too, but realized almost at once that he was a man to be pitied. She was too close to strong men, such as her father and her uncle Gideon Rocklin, to miss the fact that the head of Gracefield was a weak man—but she could not deny his warmth and generosity.

  It was Clay Rocklin, though, who fascinated the young woman. She had heard stories of his wild youth, his long exile, and his dramatic return. A lover of novels, Deborah was possessed of a powerful imagination, and the drama of Clay Rocklin’s life would have made an excellent novel. He even looked like the hero of a romance, lean and darkly handsome.

  Strangely enough, it was Deborah
who discovered the rather unusual friendship between Clay Rocklin and Melora Yancy. It happened quite accidentally, actually. Deborah had always loved horses and had her own mare in Washington. When she lamented one morning that she missed her horse, Clay said at once, “That’s no problem. Come along with me.” He had led her to the stables and to her delight assigned a beautiful mare named Lady for her use while visiting at Gracefield.

  “Oh, what a beauty!” Deborah cried out with delight. “May I ride her now?”

  “Get dressed and I’ll give you a tour of the place.”

  Deborah had dashed away at once, borrowing one of Susanna’s riding habits. Soon she and Clay were riding across the fields. Clay watched her carefully, aware that the mare was spirited, but soon he was satisfied that the young woman would have no trouble.

  “You’re a fine horsewoman,” he said. “Lady’s been known to throw her rider a time or two, but I can see you can handle her.” The fields were dead and brown, filled with the brittle cotton stalks from the last harvest. “I wish you could see this field when the cotton is ready to harvest, Deborah,” Clay said. “It looks like fields of snow.”

  “Maybe I can come back for a visit then,” Deborah said, smiling. She gave him a glance, admiring his rugged good looks, and added, “It’s a lovely place, Mr. Rocklin. And everyone is so nice.”

  He suddenly turned his head and gave her a shrewd smile. “You didn’t think we would be, did you? Nice, I mean.” He laughed at her expression. “The daughter of Amos Steele and a graduate of Oberlin College wouldn’t be expected to like Southerners. I expect you thought you’d find some pretty grim monsters.

  Beating slaves to death every morning before breakfast.”

  “Oh no—!” Deborah protested, then laughed, though she was blushing. “You’re pretty clever, Uncle Clay.” She smiled. “I suppose that was what I expected.” She sat on her horse, unaware of what a picture she made. She had hair that was almost blond, the only light-colored hair in her family, and her eyes were large, well shaped, and a beautiful pure violet. She had a heart-shaped face with a widow’s peak and a beautiful complexion. Even in her aunt’s riding habit, her slim but well-curved figure was evident. For all her beauty, though, Deborah was not a vain young woman. Her mirror—and many young men!—had told her that her appearance was good, but she did not trade on it.