He stepped lightly as he made his way up the stairs, glad the family was all still asleep, glad he’d spent most of the evening at the Maison de Ville where Lee Smith would surely keep his confidences. But as he snuck into the second-floor bedroom that he shared with Robert, he found his cousin still awake, sitting reading by the light of an oil lamp.
“You’re out late,” Robert commented, closing his book. “And you’ve been drinkin’, by the smell of you.”
“I was celebratin’ my birthday,” John Henry replied. “I reckon comin’-of-age means I’m man enough to do as I please. More of a man now than you are, anyhow –”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means my life is none of your business!” he said, the anger of the afternoon and the shame of the evening running together. He was sure that respectable Robert had never spent a few lost hours in a woman’s bed, on Decatur Street or anywhere else.
Robert studied him a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? You’re still just as selfish and thoughtless as ever. I wasn’t the only one waitin’ up for you. Mattie stayed up past midnight herself, worried over where you’d gone.”
“Mattie waited up?” John Henry said sharply, his heart growing cold. Mattie had waited up for him, while he was spending himself in a bordello?
“She had a birthday present for you and wanted to give it to you privately. Poor thing cares for you more than she should. And if you cared about her half as much as you care about yourself . . .”
“She had a present for me?” he asked as his heart slowly warmed again. If she cared enough to wait up, to bring him a gift, then there must still be hope . . .
“Take it,” Robert said, tossing a small paper-wrapped bundle into John Henry’s hands. “She asked me to give it to you as soon as you got home, so now I’ve done my duty. I won’t tell her how late you came in, or how much liquor you’ve been drinkin’. She deserves better than that.”
But not even Robert’s chastising words could hurt him, as he opened the package and found the gift that Mattie had brought for him: A little leather notebook, the pages blank as if she meant for him to fill them with his own words, the inside front cover inscribed in her delicate and feminine handwriting:
To my dearest cousin, J.H. Holliday –
Happy birthday!
Love always, M.A. Holliday
It had all been so easy, once he knew that she still cared, to set things back on course again. He’d simply taken her into the parlor of his Uncle’s house and lied a little, telling her that he had no intentions toward her other than friendship, so there was no reason to worry her father over his past or his future.
“But what about that talk we had, before you went off to Philadelphia?” she asked as they sat together on the hard horsehair sofa. “I thought you wanted . . .” she stopped, too well-bred to make such assumptions out loud.
He reached for her hand and held it lightly. “Of course I had intentions, Mattie. How could I not? You are the finest girl I know. Who wouldn’t want to win your heart?” That part came easily enough; he meant every word. Then he took a breath and went on. “But after Robert told me the situation with your father, of course my intentions no longer matter. I will never again press you for somethin’ you cannot give.”
“And we can still be friends?” she asked.
“Oh Mattie!” he said, with unfeigned emotion, “haven’t we always been friends?”
But alone with her there in the quiet of the parlor, with just a breath of space between them and her face tipped gently up to his, he had a sudden yearning to bend his head and kiss her, after all.
“Don’t look at me that way, John Henry,” she said softly.
“What way?” he asked.
“That way,” she said, pulling her head away from his shoulder, though she kept looking up as though his eyes had some kind of hold on her. “It makes me feel funny.”
“Funny good or funny bad?” he asked, teasing her a little, and enjoying the sudden discovery that he did still have some effect on her.
“Just funny, that’s all,” she said, giving a small quiver with her shoulders. “Just don’t do it anymore.”
But still she didn’t look away, and all at once he knew just what she meant. He had that same funny feeling too, flushed and breathless, and for a moment he didn’t know who had a magical hold over whom, or if they were both caught in the same thing.
Chapter Thirteen
ATLANTA, 1872
THAT WAS THE SUMMER THAT BASEBALL FEVER CAME TO ATLANTA, AND not since the War had there been such a thrilling spectator sport. The hometown team was called the Osceolas, named after a tribe of southeastern Indian braves, and the game they played was fast and physical. It wasn’t unusual for a player to be knocked clean senseless by a wild ball or a carefully aimed bat, and in the crowds watching the game, ladies fainted at the show of violence, but the fans still yelled for more. But there were other, gentler pleasures to fill those languid summer days. There was rowing on the lake at Oglethorpe Park and roller-skating on the rink at the bottom of Forsyth Street. And with church barbecues and county fairs, slow sultry afternoons and firefly nights, it was a perfect summer for courting and sparking and falling in love.
It was also the summer that Mattie’s cousin, Annie Fitzgerald Stephens, moved to Jackson Hill, right around the corner from Forrest Avenue. Annie was second of the seven daughters of Phillip Fitzgerald, and had been the belle of Clayton County before she ran off and married Captain John Stephens during the glory days of the War. She’d been only eighteen-years-old at the time and her elopement with the dashing Confederate officer had been the talk of the county, until Gettysburg and Vicksburg overshadowed everything else.
Captain Stephens was stationed in Atlanta in 1863, and the newlyweds made their home there, living in a rented boarding house room and taking their meals in restaurants. It was a fashionable way for a young couple to live in a city full of soldiers and the excitement of the War. Annie thrived on life in Atlanta, feeling a kinship with the city that had been founded in the same year she was born—she liked to think that they were both of them young women, full of passion and vibrantly alive. Then Sherman’s army came to Georgia, and Annie watched the city she loved go up in flames.
With the Yankees in Atlanta and Captain Stephens back at the front, Annie refugeed south to live with her sister Mamie in Macon. But that elegant old citadel on the bluffs of the Ocmulgee River wasn’t much safer than Atlanta for a beautiful young War bride and her unmarried sister. Macon was full of the riffraff that followed Sherman’s destruction: swaggering Yankee soldiers and freed Negro slaves, drunken Confederate deserters, ladies of ill repute. So brave Annie marched right through the Yankee camp to the General’s headquarters and demanded that a guard be placed upon her home for her protection, and the Yankee general was so impressed by the fiery Irish lass that he sent not one guard but four, a day shift and a night shift, to stand post at Annie’s house as long as she remained in the city. She was something of a legend in Macon after that—the Rebel girl who had dared to challenge the Yankees, and won.
After the War ended Annie returned to Atlanta where she and Captain Stephens set up housekeeping in a pretty home on Peters Street, close to the downtown. John Stephens had been trained as an accountant and found plenty of work keeping books for the new businesses that were turning Atlanta into a boomtown. He brought home $200 dollars a month in gold, a fortune during the Reconstruction, and his wife had everything she wanted—except a child.
By the time Annie was twenty-three years old she had birthed and buried four babies—two sons and two daughters. Then finally, one little girl survived. Annie named her daughter Mary Isabelle, after two of the blessed Saints, but Captain Stephens said that was too much of a name for a baby and he shortened it to Maybelle, and as a baby gift to his wife he bought a new house, one where there were no memories of dead children to haunt the nursery. And that was wh
en the Stephens family moved to Jackson Hill.
Mattie was thrilled to have her cousin living so close. They hadn’t seen much of each other since Annie had run off to Atlanta to be married, but they had long memories of growing up together in Jonesboro.
“Oh, John Henry, just think of it!” Mattie exclaimed when she first heard the news. “Real family livin’ right up the street, close enough to walk to whenever I want to visit!”
“Aren’t we real family?” he asked with a little envy, seeing Mattie with her eyes dancing and her cheeks all in a blush at reading the calling card that Annie had left for her.
“Well, of course you’re real family,” she answered. “But Annie is from Jonesboro, and her father is my mother’s very own Uncle Phillip. We practically grew up together. Why, it’ll be like havin’ my own sisters here with me, with Annie so close!”
John Henry didn’t understand why a woman always wanted to have other women around. Aunt Permelia was the same way, always going out to her sewing circles and literary parties where the ladies sat for hours and talked about babies and such. It wasn’t like they had anything really important to discuss, not the way men did, debating politics and business over a drink and a friendly game of cards. He smiled benignly and said as if he didn’t care one way or another:
“I could walk you over there now, if you wanted to go for a little visit.” A half-hour alone with Mattie, walking her up to Jackson Hill and home again, would be worth an hour or two of sitting while she chatted with her cousin. Besides, she couldn’t go out unescorted. Forrest Avenue was safe enough, but just over the crest of the hill was the wooded ravine called Buttermilk Bottom, where all sorts of ruffians lurked in the green shadows.
“I suppose, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble . . .” Mattie said. And though she seemed a little unsure still, she was already reaching for her bonnet. “Well, I’m sure Annie will enjoy meetin’ you. She was already married and gone to Atlanta when you came to Jonesboro for your little visit.”
John Henry smiled as he followed her out into the heavy afternoon heat. Mattie always referred to his summer of exile as his “little visit,” as though he’d been there for pleasure instead of punishment. She was always trying to see the good side of everything and everybody. Heaven help her, if she ever met the Devil face to face she’d find something polite to say.
A gust of hot wind whipped across the front porch, fluttering Mattie’s skirts and blowing John Henry’s hat right off. He grabbed after it, looking up into the clouding sky. On the western horizon, a thin veil of gray was gathering and turning dark.
“Looks like there’s a storm comin’,” he said, nodding toward the clouds. “We sure could use a good rain.”
By the time they arrived at the Stephens’ elegant new home, John Henry was actually looking forward to meeting Mattie’s married cousin. He knew from the stories he’d heard that Annie was a feisty little thing, full of enough gumption to face down that Yankee general. But though he knew she was still young when she’d had those War adventures, he somehow expected that marriage and five babies would have aged her past her twenty-something years.
There was nothing matronly, however, about the beautiful Annie Fitzgerald Stephens. Her black Irish looks were still stunning enough to put any Southern Belle to shame. Her hair was thick and dark with just a hint of curl in the tendrils that fell against her sleek white neck, her smooth black brows arching over cat-green eyes. Her skin was as fair as her hair was dark, her lips a bright blush of berry red against magnolia white. She rose to greet Mattie and John Henry in a sweet scented rustle of taffeta and silk, and smiled just enough to show off her dimpled cheeks.
“Mattie, darlin’,” she said in a honeyed drawl, “you look just lovely! Why, I simply adore that sweet little dress you’re wearin’!”
It was generous of Annie to make such a fuss. Standing by her cousin, Mattie seemed suddenly plain by comparison, with her red-brown hair and innocent brown eyes and that dusting of freckles that made her look like a schoolgirl. Mattie’s neat little figure had no voluptuous curves hiding behind bustle and bodice, her ladylike smile didn’t tease and pout and dimple seductively. She was no Southern Belle and never had been, and John Henry thought with a little guilty envy that Captain Stephens was one damned lucky Rebel, having a woman like Annie to call his own.
But Mattie showed no jealousy, happily throwing her arms around her cousin. “Oh Annie!” she said, “I’m so glad to have you livin’ close by! It’s been so lonely up here in Atlanta without my sisters.”
Annie kissed Mattie lightly on the cheek, then stared across her shoulder at John Henry, her eyes sweeping over him approvingly.
“And who is this fine lookin’ gentleman? Shame on you, Mattie Holliday for not tellin’ me you had a beau!” She reached her hands out to John Henry and looked up into his face with a practiced tilt of her head, showing off those green eyes to perfection. It was easy to see why that Yankee general had given her four guards instead of one. Annie had enough feminine charm to put a whole army into a lather.
Mattie blushed and stammered, “Why, he’s just my cousin, John Henry Holliday. He’s not my beau.”
“John Henry,” Annie repeated, still holding his hands. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“He stayed with us one summer in Jonesboro,” Mattie explained, “after you moved away-off to Atlanta. Maybe the family mentioned him to you?”
“No,” Annie said, and pursed her lips prettily. Then she smiled, and John Henry felt she knew more about him than she was admitting. “Why yes, I do recall somethin’. You’re the boy from Valdosta who was so good with a gun. I believe my sister Sarah mentioned your name.”
“John Henry’s just graduated from dental school. He came up to Atlanta to work for the summer in Dr. Arthur Ford’s office, and now Dr. Ford has invited him to stay on until he’s ready to open his own practice. It’s quite an honor.”
“Well, how delightful,” Annie said, finally letting go of his hands, but still looking up flirtatiously into his eyes. “We shall have to make sure he feels welcomed. There aren’t nearly enough handsome men in Atlanta, now the War is over.” It was a brash kind of compliment for a married lady to make, but coming from Annie’s pretty lips it sounded sweet as anything.
John Henry smiled and said something polite in return, but his mind felt a little fuzzy, looking back into those intoxicating eyes.
Annie had always had that effect on men. Half the boys in Clayton County had sworn to kill Captain John Stephens for taking her off the way he did. But it was probably just as well that Annie had run away and gotten married to someone from outside the county. If she’d stayed in Jonesboro, those hometown boys might have taken out their frustration by killing each other instead. As it was, she had an adoring husband who was smart enough to know that Annie meant nothing by her flirtatious behavior. She couldn’t help being beautiful or liking men the way she did.
“Now do sit down, Mattie honey,” she said, finally turning her attention back to her cousin. “You must tell me all the news from home. It’s been ever so long since I had a nice visit in Jonesboro.”
“I haven’t been there in awhile myself,” Mattie answered, obediently sitting next to Annie on the slick brocade sofa.
John Henry sat across from them in a heavy carved wood chair that was even less comfortable than it appeared. The furnishings in Annie’s expensively decorated home were obviously made to be seen and not sat upon. But like Annie herself, they were lovely to look at.
“Your father is doin’ well,” Mattie went on. “He’s done a wonderful job of makin’ the plantation profitable again. Most of the planters in the county couldn’t do a thing without slaves to work the land, but Uncle Phillip is just amazin’ at gettin’ folks to work for him.”
“That’s what Father calls ‘Irish Diplomacy’,” Annie said with a smile. “He says it’s a special talent, bein’ able to tell people to go to hell and have them look forward to the trip.”
John Henry had never heard a proper lady use profanity before, but Annie was only quoting her blustering father, after all, and the Irish were experts at swearing.
“Most of our hands stayed on at Rural Home,” Annie went on, “even after the Emancipation. Mother makes such a fuss, you know, treatin’ them like they were part of the family. I remember how she used to make us girls go out to the little house and teach our darkies how to read and write so they could learn their Bible and be baptized into the Faith. I do believe that most of the Catholic population in Clayton County is made up of my father’s slaves. He even brought some of them up here to Atlanta to be confirmed at Mass. You should have seen how proud he stood there, watchin’ them write their own names in the parish register.”
“That’s not the picture of planter life they have up in Philadelphia,” John Henry said, giving up his struggle to get comfortable on that monstrously charming chair. “They think we’re all a bunch of demons down here, beatin’ our people and enjoyin’ it.”
“Well, I feel sorry for our colored folk!” Mattie said with sudden passion. “Poor things never had to take care of themselves before! I think it’s just a sin the way they’ve been set free. It’s like turnin’ little children loose with no one to watch over them.”
“Well, they’re the Yankee’s problem now, aren’t they?” John Henry drawled. “Let that damned Federal government of theirs figure out how to take care of them.”
Southern Son Page 31
