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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Thomas stared at her, snorted, and said almost harshly, “You can’t make cloth out of sorghum, either, miss! And England wants cotton, not syrup!”

  Clay said quickly, “We’ll have a good cotton crop, sir. But the land needs a rest from too much cotton.”

  Denton put his fork down with a violent gesture. He was wearing his new uniform of ash gray with polished leather and straps. “This is no time to worry about such things. We’re in a war!” Denton and David were identical twins, but few people ever mistook one for the other. Both were fine-looking young men, but there was a fiery manner about Dent that his brother lacked. Some of that raw impatience came out now as Dent stared across the table at his father. “When we’ve whipped the Yankees, it’ll be time to worry about rotating crops.”

  “Right, my boy!” Thomas Rocklin gave an approving thump to the table. He was a tall, thin shape at the table, and as his wife, Susanna, looked at him, she thought how much he had been like Denton as a young man—rash and impulsive. He had lost that ramrod-straight posture of his youth and was now bent. His once-black hair was tinged with silver, and his shoulders were thin. Yet despite the ill health that had plagued him for the last year, he was still handsome. For all his good looks and powerful personality, though, Thomas Rocklin had been a poor husband. But Susanna had remained true to him.

  Susanna Rocklin was the driving force of Gracefield, inside the house at least. She was an attractive woman of sixty, her auburn hair darker than when she was younger, but still glossy and full. She had a pair of even, greenish eyes, which were now fixed on Clay.

  He’s done so well since he came back! she thought. But it would not do to say so in front of Thomas, for her husband still harbored a black streak of anger toward his son. He had never forgiven Clay for what he felt was rank disloyalty to the Rocklin family. His feelings had smoldered over the years, and when Clay had finally returned, it had taken much persuasion from Susanna to get him to let Clay stay.

  Suddenly Susanna looked at Ellen, Clay’s wife, and a startling thought flashed across her mind as she studied the woman’s face: She hates Clay. She never loved him—but now it’s worse.

  As if she had sensed Susanna’s thoughts, Ellen Rocklin turned and looked across the table at her mother-in-law. At nineteen Ellen had been a lush beauty, but there had been something predatory about her even then. It had come as a shock to Thomas and Susanna when Clay had brought her home from Washington to announce their engagement. Something had happened there, Susanna had always known, but neither Clay nor Ellen ever spoke of it. One thing Susanna knew for certain—it had something to do with Melanie Rocklin.

  Susanna remembered how Clay had been wildly in love with Melanie and how devastated he was when Melanie had chosen Gideon, the son of Stephen Rocklin, Thomas’s older brother. Somehow, in the midst of that devastation, Clay and Ellen had come together. Susanna had worried that the marriage was a mistake … and there was little even now, so many years later, to prove that worry wrong.

  Clay and Ellen’s marriage had been stormy enough before Clay had abandoned them all. Now that he was back, it was different. Not better, just different. Clay did not even stay in the big house but kept his quarters in the summerhouse. Ellen stayed in Richmond most of the time, coming back to Gracefield when her funds ran low. They shared none of the closeness of man and wife, as Susanna—and everyone else—knew.

  “Clay, I need to talk to you,” Ellen said, breaking into Susanna’s train of thought. Susanna watched as the woman rose and left the table. Clay, after giving his wife a strange look, rose and followed her. She went into the library, then turned at once and said, “Clay, I’ve got to have some money.”

  Clay gave her an even look but shook his head firmly. “There isn’t any right now, Ellen. I told you when I gave you your allowance it would have to do you.”

  She stared at him, the anger in her eyes plain to see. “You’ve got to give it to me!” She was forty now and still attractive. There was a certain quality in her lips and figure that caught men’s attention. She had begun to use too much makeup and wore clothes that were too young for her, yet men were drawn to her. She had worked hard keeping her figure and her reputation, though the latter was more difficult. Still, she had entrance into some of Virginia’s plushest homes.

  But nothing could change the one overriding factor in her life: her hatred of her husband. That hatred was based on two things, two things for which she had never forgiven Clay—for loving Melanie Benton and for abandoning her. She always insisted that it was his abandonment of the children that was the basis of her anger, but it was not; Ellen was a woman who had to possess things, and Clay had refused to let her own him. She knew that his flight was as much from her as from his hopeless love for his cousin’s wife.

  “You love to make me beg, don’t you, Clay!” she cried, her voice rising. “If it were your precious Melanie, you’d hand out the money fast enough!”

  Clay stood there, his heart cold and barren as polar ice.

  Whatever he had felt for Ellen had died long ago. She had tricked him into marriage, and it had been wrong from the start. He had hoped that the children would make it bearable, but finally he had gone over the edge and fled his home. Now he half wished that he had never returned, but he kept his voice even as he replied, “Ellen, that’s absurd and you know it. Melanie’s nothing to me but a fine friend. As for the money, I’ve told you the truth. Things are tight … and they’re going to get tighter. All we have to sell is cotton, and as you’ve probably heard, it’s going to be impossible to sell cotton if Davis and the Congress go through with their plan to cut off sales to England.”

  She glared at him, then raged as he stood there regarding her. Finally he said, “Your hotel bill is paid. If you’ve spent the rest of your money, you’ll have to stay here—or eat with your friends in Richmond.”

  Instantly she laughed, her lips contorted. “You’d like to know who takes me out to dinner, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Clay turned and walked away, going out the front door, sickened by his brief interview with Ellen. He knew that she hated him. That had become clearer than ever after an incident that had occurred months earlier. When he had first returned, Ellen had slashed at him, warning him that he would never be a husband to her. Clay had expected that, and it relieved him greatly. He did not want anything from his wife, especially physical intimacy. But when Ellen saw that he seemed uninterested, she paradoxically began to try to gain his attention. Finally she had come to the summerhouse late one night to see him alone. When Clay had rejected her, she had cursed him like a madwoman. From that time, she had made little or no effort to hide her hatred, and Clay had been forced to endure her tirades as best he could.

  Clay headed for the summerhouse. It was a small structure, only two rooms, but Clay had made himself a cozy bachelor’s quarters out of it. Decay had been at it, but he had taken pleasure in working hard with the help of Highboy and a few others to make it into a very attractive place. Now as he walked down the narrow lane that led to it and entered the sequestered area under tall pines where the house rested on a slight rise, he felt a sense of despair.

  Entering the house, he sat down and stared blankly at the floor for a long time. Thinking of the problems that loomed ahead for him, he felt drained and tired. He thought of the war that was on the horizon. No battles had been fought since Fort Sumter had fallen, but they would come. There were too many fire-eaters in the Southern camp, and the people of the North were bound and determined to keep the Union intact. He saw nothing but ruin down that road, for he had been in the North and knew that it was a sleeping giant, with factories, coal, steel mills, and industrial might as yet unrealized. His own life, too, was a shambles. His marriage was a farce, and Denton, he well understood, resented him for his long absence. The other children had forgiven him as best they could, but he had robbed them of a father, and that he could never restore.

  “Daddy?”

  Clay gave
a start, then smiled as Rena opened the door and peered in tentatively. “Daddy, can I come in?”

  “Come in, Rena,” Clay said, and his mood lightened as the girl came to stand before him. She had been withdrawn and hostile when he’d first returned to Gracefield, but he’d found out that she was really starved for affection. It had gladdened his heart as she had slowly opened up to him, and now he smiled at her fondly. “What’s on your schedule today? Finding more sick animals to take care of?”

  Rena made a face at him, for it was something he teased her about often. She had something in her that made her want to help when sickness came to humans or animals. That desire most often found an outlet in taking care of any animal that became ill on the farm, or any injured or ailing wild animals that were brought to her. Not long ago Clay had brought her a small raccoon with a broken leg. “How’s Bandit?” he asked.

  Her expressive face brightened as she replied, “Oh, Daddy, he’s almost well!”

  As she went on to tell about her care for the wounded animal, Clay thought, If everyone were as sweet and gentle as this child, it’d be a good world. Finally he said, “That’s good, Rena, but don’t get too close to Bandit.”

  “Why not, Daddy?”

  “Because you’ll have to part with him sooner or later.”

  “Can’t we keep him as a pet?”

  “No, he’s not a tame animal. He’s wild, and sooner or later he’ll have to go back to his own.”

  “But—I don’t want him to go,” Rena protested. “I love him!”

  Clay reached out and drew the girl closer, his arm around her. She did not hold back as she once would have done. “I know,” he said gently, “but it wouldn’t be best for Bandit. Wild things aren’t happy in cages, and that’s what you’d have to keep him in.” He hesitated, then added, “You have to learn to let things go, Rena. We all do.”

  She was very still in his embrace, her features troubled. She was the most sensitive thing Clay had ever known, and his love for her was beyond measure. Finally she whispered, “I won’t have to let you go, will I, Daddy?”

  His grip on her tightened, and he realized suddenly that Rena was more deeply scarred than he had guessed. The shame of abandoning her cut into him like a razor. She was afraid he would leave again. More than anything he wanted to give her security, but he knew better than to make any promises that went beyond his power to keep.

  He drew her closer and kissed her cheek. “You’ll never lose me if I can help it, sweetheart,” he said huskily. “Lots of things are happening, but I’ll do my best to stay close to you always.”

  “Will you really, Daddy?”

  “Really!”

  She lay against him, seeming to soak up the love that she sensed in him, but finally she asked tentatively, “Daddy, will we ever … be a family again?” It was not quite what she wanted to ask, and she pulled back to look into his face. “I mean, will you and Mother ever be together?”

  Clay wanted to assure her but knew that he could not. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Rena. But one thing I do know—I love you, and I won’t ever leave you if I can help it. And I’ll always help your mother as much as I can.”

  Clay had no idea how much Rena understood about him and Ellen—probably more than he had thought—but he could say no more.

  She seemed content to stand there with him, not replying. Finally she looked up at him and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Daddy. I was so lonesome for you while you were gone!” Then she seemed to feel uncomfortable, or at least her mood passed. “Daddy, can I go to the ball in Richmond next week?”

  “You’re too young for balls,” he told her with a smile, relieved at the change of topic. “Besides, you’re getting too pretty. Some young fellow might try to steal you.”

  “Oh, Daddy!” Rena flushed with pleasure, then began to beg him to let her go. Clay had already decided that he would take her, but he let her wheedle him, taking pleasure in her bright eyes and eager voice.

  Finally he said, “All right, but you can only dance with me or your brothers.”

  “Oh, thank you, Daddy!” She kissed him with a loud smack, then ran off, saying, “I’ve got to get Grandmother to help me with a dress!”

  Clay stood there watching her fly up the path to the Big House; then he moved back inside. If only he could win the hearts of others as easily as he’d won Rena’s.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE YANCYS

  The Reverend Jeremiah Irons had some of the quality of his name in his character. Not that he was a weeping prophet like his namesake in the Old Testament, but there was something of a stubborn streak in him. In fact, so strong was this streak that some of his parishioners called him “Old Ironsides”—the nickname given to Oliver Cromwell, who had ruled England with an iron fist.

  Despite the shared nickname, Jeremiah Irons was nothing like the dour Cromwell. Rather, the pastor of Grace Congregational Church fully appreciated a good joke. This fact and his renown as a crack shot made Irons a popular man with the hunters of the county. He was always welcome on a hunt—though he steadfastly refused to join them in a drink of the fiery liquor that usually accompanied them on such expeditions.

  But there was no sign of humor on the minister’s broad lips as he drove his buggy along the road leading to Gracefield on Friday afternoon. His fifteen-year-old daughter, Ann, sat beside him, chattering away about things that mattered to her. From time to time he would put in a question, but his mind was elsewhere. A man of no more than medium height, Irons was still as wiry at the age of forty-one as he had been when he had left the hills of Arkansas at the age of sixteen. He was not a particularly handsome man, though he had neat features and agreeable brown eyes. He was the despair of a large segment of his congregation—that segment made up of single young women, women with marriageable daughters, and widows looking for a second go at marital bliss.

  When his wife, Lorraine, had died, he had stubbornly insisted on rearing their two children alone. It had been a difficult time for him, as well as for the children, Asa and Ann. They had, he had always known, missed their mother and had fully expected him to remarry. Now Asa at the age of sixteen and Ann at fifteen were still showing signs of resentment over his refusal to marry. Asa had said nothing, but Ann had more than once questioned him closely about his singleness. Looking at her now, her face illuminated by the afternoon sun, he felt guilty over his failure.

  His elders at the church had often expressed their displeasure over his single state. When he had quoted St. Paul’s maxim from scripture, “I say therefore to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if they abide as I,” they had frowned, indicating that that was very well during biblical times, but the pastor of Grace Church needed to set an example for his congregation. Irons’s refusal to marry had been a touchy subject, and at the last meeting Elder Rufus Matlock had said bluntly, “Rev. Irons, if you can’t see your way clear to marry, it would be best if you found another congregation.”

  Irons had stared at the elder with a pair of direct brown eyes, knowing that this was a final warning; the two had clashed over this matter many times. As the pastor drove along the dusty road, then turned into the oyster-shell drive of Gracefield, he knew that in a power struggle against Elder Matlock, he would lose. Irons had no patience with political maneuvering, and his direct preaching had not been calculated to make him popular. He had offended many with his direct bombshell hits on sin, and if the matter came to a vote, he knew that he would be without a congregation.

  He glanced at the Rocklin mansion as he drove closer. As always, he admired the lines of the house and the way it overlooked the expanse of green, but his mind was on things other than architectural beauty. He was a man who never flinched from a hard task, but the occasion of his visit to Clay Rocklin was especially difficult. He and Clay had been friends for years; there was no man who admired Rocklin’s determined efforts to rebuild a shattered life more than the pastor of Grace Church. Irons was closer to Clay than any
other man, and the pastor knew that hard times lay ahead for Clay Rocklin because of his stand against the war.

  Now he was coming to add to the big man’s burden.

  Irons pulled the buggy up to the front porch and handed the lines to Moses, then moved with Ann up the steps. They were met by the mistress of Gracefield, Susanna Rocklin. “Come in, Brother Irons, and you, too, Ann. My, what a pretty dress!”

  “Thank you,” Ann said with a nod. Then she asked at once, “Is Rena here, Mrs. Rocklin?”

  “She’s down at the summerhouse, Ann. Why don’t you run on down, and you two can have some time together. You’re staying for supper, I trust, Reverend?”

  There was no table that Irons enjoyed more than the one set by Susanna Rocklin, but an uncertainty moved in him. When he hesitated, Susanna was surprised. It was so unlike Irons to show any sort of doubt that she knew at once he was struggling with a problem. “Of course you will!” she said quickly, taking the struggle out of his hands. “You’ve been neglecting me lately, so tonight you’ve got to give me some of your time.”

  “All right, Susanna.” Irons smiled, knowing that she had noted his uncertainty. He turned to his daughter. “You run on to see Rena, Ann. Have a good time.” As she ran down the steps, Irons followed Susanna into the house.

  She led him into the small parlor she used for sewing and said, “You sit right down. I’ll have Dorrie make us some fresh tea—no, you like coffee better—and Dorrie made a cake this afternoon. It won’t spoil your supper to sample it.”

  As she moved away, Irons relaxed on the horsehair sofa and looked out through the mullioned windows. A small crew of slaves were barbering the green lawn just outside. They moved slowly, clipping the grass carefully, and the sound of their lazy laughter floated on the air.