“It’s—all right, Jeremiah,” she said quietly. She let her hands rest in his, then said, “You’re the most loyal, persistent man in the world, Rev. Jeremiah Irons. You could have married I don’t know how many fine women, but you keep on waiting around for me.”
“Melora, I know you care for Clay,” Irons said abruptly. “Well, so do I. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. But you’ll never have any happiness with him, and I think you know that. He’ll never leave Ellen.” His grip on her hands tightened, and he urged her, “Love can come to a person, Melora. I can make you love me if you’ll just give me a chance.”
At that moment, Dee came out of the house calling, “Miss Melora! Miss Amy, she say come to her room soon as you kin!”
“All right, Dee.”
The moment between Melora and Irons was broken, but Melora was greatly touched. She looked at the preacher and said, “Perhaps you’re right. About learning to love.” She paused for a moment, then smiled. “Come and get me Sunday, Jeremiah.”
She turned and left, and Irons sprang into the saddle, his face glowing. It was the most encouraging thing she’d ever said to him. In a sudden burst of excitement, he kicked his horse with both heels and shot out of the driveway at a dead run.
“Dat preacher, he sho’ is feelin’ good,” Tad said aloud as he watched the minister tear along the road. “Wonder whut got him feeling so good? He don’t drink no hard likker and he ain’t chasin’ no gals!” The slave watched until the horse and rider disappeared, then began to whistle as he moved toward the stable.
CHAPTER 9
RACHEL’S CHALLENGE
On the first day of November, Jake Hardin awoke with a grim determination. He opened his eyes, thinking at once of his resolve of the previous night. It was time to stop being an invalid. At once he threw off the blankets and struggled to a sitting position. The pain in his leg was dull now, rather than sharp as it had been when he had first arrived at Lindwood, and his hand was better—good enough so that he could flex his fingers slowly.
Carefully he swung his left leg to the floor, then used his good hand to lift his bandaged ankle and place it alongside the good one. His wheelchair was beyond his reach, but he pulled himself off the bed and, by hopping on one foot, was able to get to it. He tried to push himself around in the chair, but his right hand was too sensitive to be of much good. “Guess I could go around in a circle,” he said after a futile attempt to get across the room. Finally he figured out how to move the chair by using his good left hand on both wheels—a slow method and one that irritated him, but he managed it.
He spent the next half hour shaving himself. Rachel kept his shaving gear on the dark washstand, and it was a matter of using his right hand to push things around while using his left for the careful work. Since the wheelchair wasn’t high enough, he was forced to stand, using only his good leg. Stropping the blade was beyond him, but he managed to lather up in the cold water, then to scrape off his whiskers using his left hand. When he was finished, he went to sit down, his right leg aching, the left trembling with the unaccustomed exercise.
But he had done it! A sense of satisfaction ran through him as he maneuvered himself toward the large wardrobe. As he opened the door and looked through Vince’s clothing, he thought of how he’d managed to survive his first week. It had been fairly simple, for he’d had no visitors and Brad and Grant were gone with the army. Jake had seen only the family and the house servants, but that had gone well.
He picked out a pair of fawn trousers that were cut rather full and decided he could get them on over his bandaged leg. He chose a white shirt with bone buttons and found fresh underwear next. Then came the monumental struggle of getting the clothes on. The trousers were the hardest, but he managed them by slipping the right trouser leg over his bandaged leg and working it up. The left leg was easy, and after he had slipped on the shirt, he stuffed the tail of it into the pants, then fastened them.
What he’d done so far had been the most exercise he’d had since the fire, but he could sense that he was on the mend. There was some pain and discomfort, but that would pass. He was a stubborn man, and now his whole mind was fixed on getting well. He would push himself hard until he was whole again.
The air was cold in the room, and he looked at the fireplace, longing to put some wood on the coals he knew were hidden under a blanket of gray ash. With a shake of his head, he decided to save that for another day.
Jake moved the chair over to the window. A group of squirrels were chattering just outside, chasing each other around a large oak tree that rose above the house itself. The day was clear, and Jake had a good view of the front yard. He looked at it in surprise—it was huge! The grass was dead and brown, of course, but in the summer he knew that it would be green and lush and clipped like a carpet. This most definitely was the home of a rich man. How different such a life was from his own. He had grown up in poverty, having to make his own way from the time he was only fifteen years old. Vince, he reflected, had had everything he had not: horses, expensive clothing, a good education. Jake had managed to have some of those things, but only because he had wrested them from the world by his wits and his muscles. He wondered what it would be like to have them come without a struggle, but could not imagine it.
Just then a flash of movement caught his eye, and he shifted his glance to see Rachel riding across a wide pasture surrounded by a white fence. She was on a sleek black horse, and as he watched, she took the fence in a perfectly executed jump. She wheeled her mount around, and Jake could see the expression of pleasure on her face as she passed. There was in her, he thought, more joy than he had found in anyone before. This was a quality he admired—perhaps because he had even less of it than most men. The hardness of his life had allowed for little except survival and had given him a cynical outlook that he could not seem to put away, even when circumstances were pleasant. He always was unconsciously getting ready for the hard things that he knew lay over the next hill.
With a sigh, he reached for the photographs, going through them again. He had studied them for hours and, by carefully commenting on them to Dee or Melora or Rachel, had been able to learn the identity of most of the people pictured.
Dee was his best source. She didn’t like him, but she was proud of the family. All Jake had to do was show her a picture and ask, “When was this one made, Dee?” and she would sit down and go over everyone, giving little incidents that helped Jake get them fixed in his mind. When Jake had showed her the first picture in this way, she glanced at it and remarked, “Now you see that scar on Mistuh Paul’s face? He got dat when he fell in a horse race in Kentucky.” Jake kept her talking, and before long he discovered that Paul was the oldest son of Marianne, who was Amy Franklin’s aunt and the only sister of Stephen and Thomas Rocklin; that Marianne was married to Claude Bristol and that they had another son named Austin and a daughter named Marie; and that Claude was not the best husband in the world—that he had, in fact, given his wife much cause for concern through his affairs with other women.
Now Jake flipped through the pictures, including those from the part of the family in the North, and he suddenly thought, This is a fine family. What a fool Vince is to throw it away!
Then he became uncomfortable, for he was forced to remember his purpose for being at Lindwood. He was only going to be there long enough for Vince to be eligible for the money—at which time Vince would come back and take over as master of Lindwood. Jake frowned. Though he had not met the owner of Lindwood, he had spent some time with Amy Franklin and knew that she was a fine woman, even noble. He knew as well that when Vince took over, he would be so unbearable that the smooth flow of life at this fine home would be shattered.
Disturbed, Jake moved away from the window, making his way crabwise to the huge rolltop desk. Opening the lower drawer, he was surprised to find a stack of letters. He took them out and began reading them. They were all letters written to Vince, and he managed to piece together something of the man�
�s life from them. Most of the letters were from friends, some of them going back to Vince’s youth, and they were rather ordinary. But as Jake went through them chronologically, he discovered a pattern, a progressive loss of innocence that told him much about Vincent Franklin. The earliest letters were filled with the things that boys are interested in—hunting, fishing, a play in Richmond. But before long the tenor of the letters changed, as did the correspondents, and Jake could almost date the time that Vince began to dabble in the rougher side of life: wenching, drinking, and gambling. The most recent letters revealed a life that was completely depraved.
Some of the most revealing letters were from women, for Vince catered to women with little—or no—grace. Some of them were merely crude and vulgar; others were married women whose letters contained veiled references to secret meetings and assignations. Finally Jake had read all he could stomach. He put the letters away and was just closing the drawer when the door opened and Rachel entered.
“Well now,” she said, stopping to stare at him. “I didn’t know Dee had come to take care of you.” She was wearing a pale rose-colored dress, and her cheeks were flushed from her ride. She looked at him more closely, saying with surprise, “You’ve had a shave. I’ll bet Dee didn’t do that!”
“No, I wouldn’t risk that. I managed the job myself—and no more food trays in here. I can eat at the table.”
Rachel examined him carefully, then said, “You must have had a hard time shaving in cold water. I’ll have Jupe bring you shaving water in the morning, and he can help you dress for a time. Are you ready for breakfast?”
“Sure.” He put his dark glasses on, which she had picked up from his table and handed to him. As she wheeled him down the hall, he said, “If you could get me a pair of crutches, I think I’ll be able to use them pretty soon. My leg’s better, and the hand, too.”
“Don’t rush it,” Rachel warned as they moved out of the hall and into the dining room. “Dee, Vince will eat in here from now on.”
Dee came through the kitchen door to stare at Jake, then said, “You want eggs?”
“Eggs will be fine,” Jake said, and soon he and Rachel were eating breakfast. He had trouble cutting up the large slice of ham on his plate and said ruefully, “Never knew how handy it is to have two hands.”
“Let me cut it.” Rachel sliced the meat into bite-sized portions, then gave him his plate back. “I forgot to tell you, if you want any letters written, I’ll do it, or Melora can.”
“Thanks. Guess I’ll wait until I can handle the job myself.”
“All right.” She sat there eating and sipping her coffee, saying little, but finally she said, “I hope Father and Grant will be coming home soon.”
Rachel shook her head, and there was a doubtful look on her face. “I thought when the war started that things would go so fast we couldn’t keep up with it. But since Manassas back in July, nothing’s happened—nothing really big. Except for most of the men being in the army, life’s about the same.”
“Maybe the North has had enough.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Rachel said slowly. “Rev. Irons spends most of his time with the troops, and he’s been around some of the leaders like Colonel Chesnut. They all agree that the North had its pride hurt at Manassas. But McClellan’s getting an enormous army ready, and in the spring they’ll come down on us like a horde of locusts.”
“Things look sort of dark, I guess.”
Rachel looked at him, seemingly thinking of the war, but she said evenly, “If the Yankees really whip us, we’ll all be out in the cold.” A smile tugged at her lips, and she added, “I know you’ve been looking forward to tossing us all out for a long time. Now you may be out in the streets with the rest of us.”
“You’re pretty sure about what I’ll do, aren’t you, Rachel?”
“You’ve been quite outspoken about it,” she said, then rose and began gathering the dishes. “I’m going to town today. Can I bring you anything?”
“Some newspapers. My eyes are getting better, good enough to read a little.”
“All right.” She paused, then said, “Ask Melora to read to you. She’s the reader around here. Makes any sort of book sound exciting.”
Later on in the day, Jake did get to hear Melora read. He had said nothing to her, but she came to his room, where Jupe had built him a nice fire. He had almost dozed off when the door opened, and he looked up to see Melora enter with some books.
“I’ve come to read to you, Vincent,” she said. Sitting down, she added, “Rachel said you might be getting bored.”
“Hate to take your time, Melora.”
“I’m all caught up. Now what would you like? Poetry or a novel?”
“Read something you like.”
She smiled and pulled a book from the stack, saying, “You just made a mistake. Men usually like fiction some, but most would rather read a newspaper. I like poetry.”
“Well, it’ll be new to me, Melora, since I’ve not read much.”
“Here’s one I like ….” Melora found her place, then began reading. She had a pleasant voice, and as do most people who read aloud well, she had a lively expression.
Annabel Lee
“It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;—
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
“She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
“And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
“The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:—
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.
“But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:—
“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the side of the sea. “
Jake sat still, caught by the beauty of Melora’s face as much as by the words she read. “That’s very nice, but it’s sad. Isn’t there enough real sadness in the world without reading about such things?”
Melora let the book fall, and Jake was surprised to see that the expression on her face was not sad but meditative. She had beautiful eyes, colored a deep green, and her lips were sweetly curved as she said, “There’s something about it that isn’t sad—at least to me.”
“Not sad? But the girl dies and the lovers are parted!”
“Yes, but he still loves her. I guess that’s why I like the poem. He says that nothing can take that from him. ‘Neither the angels in Heaven above nor the demons down under the sea, can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful
Annabel Lee.’”
Jake studied the woman before him, thinking of what Vince had told him about her love for Clay Rocklin. Finally he said, “But, Melora, if he had married another woman, he at least would have had her. Life’s not very good at best, and we just have to take what we can get.”
Melora looked at him, saying, “I don’t like to think that we should take second best.”
“Well, it sounds nice in the poem,” he said finally. “Who wrote it?”
“A man named Edgar Allan Poe.” She opened the book and gave him a sudden smile, saying, “He wrote some fine stories. I’ll try you out on this one. It’s not quite as sad as the poem. It’s called ‘The Purloined Letter,’ and it’s a detective story.”
She read the story, and when she finished, Jake nodded. “Now that’s a little more in my line, Melora! That Dupin is a sharp operator. Imagine that, hiding a letter by putting it out where everyone can see it!”
“If you ever want to hide something,” Melora agreed, “now you know the way to do it. Don’t hide it away, but put it right in full view of everyone.” She rose and gave a short laugh. “This has been pleasant, Vince.”
“I’ve enjoyed it, too,” Jake said. “Maybe you’ll even make a poetry reader out of me.”
She left the room, and he wondered about her and her love for Clay Rocklin, and the preacher, Jeremiah Irons, who was totally unable to hide his love for this woman. Looks like God could have put all that together better, he mused. Then his face grew still as he thought, ’Course, I guess God doesn’t really have a lot to do with it. We have to take whatever hand life deals us and either make it work or let it beat us. After all, look at what I’ve become. God sure hasn’t had anything to do with me or my life!
Leighton Semmes was delighted to meet Rachel as she came into headquarters. He rose at once, moving to greet her, saying, “Well, recruiting is picking up! You’re the first volunteer we’ve had in two days, and the prettiest one, too.”
He looked very handsome in his smart uniform, and Rachel was amused at his attention to her. “Nothing I’d like better than joining the Richmond Grays, but there’s not much chance of that, Leighton.” She was wearing a very pretty brown dress made of fine wool, and she saw the admiration in his dark eyes. “I came down to see if you could tell us anything about Father and Grant. Will they be home soon?”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 77
