Violet

by Greenwood, Leigh

  "Not now. If I don't hurry, I'm going to be late."

  Besides, he needed his mind free to think of what he was going to do to Violet. He couldn't let this blatant blackmail go unanswered.

  * * * * *

  Violet wished she could stop thinking how handsome he was. She also wished she could keep her gaze from turning in his direction at least once a minute. If she didn't get better control over herself, everybody in the chapel was going to be whispering about her.

  She looked down at the people on the ground floor. Miss Settle had looked up once, visibly paled to see Jeff in the balcony, and had practically stumbled to her pew. She had been in constant prayer ever since.

  Harold Brown was also present. He, too, had paled when he saw his daughter walk in holding Jeff's hand. Violet wondered how much money he'd borrowed. She wondered if he would be able to pay it back. She was certain he would visit Essie regularly from now on.

  Violet sent a silent prayer heavenward that no other parents would choose to attend the service. If she didn't have to make an explanation, it couldn't be misunderstood. Besides, Betty Sue had enough mischief in mind for everybody. Her mother visited twice a week, Tuesday and Friday, and Violet was certain Betty Sue would tell her everything that had happened, as well as a few things that existed only in Betty Sue's imagination.

  Violet knew she ought to be paying attention to the sermon, but her gaze involuntarily turned back to Jeff. He had scowled at her when he came down the stairs. She'd smiled in spite of herself, and instantly his expression had softened. She knew he wasn't mad. She expected he would try to retaliate -- she would have to be on the alert -- but that didn't bother her as much as the fact she liked the man.

  And she wasn't talking about lust this time. That was still as strong as ever, but she actually liked him, sour temper and all. She didn't want to like a Southern man. There were too many unresolved issues in her own mind.

  It made no sense. She did admire Jeff for his success, but he was an irascible man, hardheaded, prejudiced, and determined that any woman born above the Mason-Dixon line might as well be a spawn of the Devil. Not that she had any desire to be the kind of woman he wanted to marry. She couldn't imagine a more miserable example of the female sex than Jeff's ideal Southern belle. Every self-respecting woman in the world should weep with fury just thinking about it.

  But neither of these things bothered her as much as the awareness that she had no control over her feelings. She liked Jeff in spite of the fact it was a stupid thing to do.

  She studied his profile. It was classic. But a woman didn't fall for a man because he had a classic profile did she? The image of him exercising in those skimpy pants flashed into her mind. Even men tried to pretend they loved a woman as much for her inner qualities as for her body.

  Not that she believed them. To hear Jeff tell it, he wanted a beautiful shell. Any inner qualities beyond complete obedience were unacceptable.

  She ought to be listening to the minister. His sermon was practically written for her. Forgive your enemies. Be kind to them that persecute you, who despise you. The timing wasn't very good for her. She couldn't forgive the people who were trying to steal her mine any more than she could forgive the men who had destroyed her family.

  She wondered what Jeff was feeling. He held to his anger even more tenaciously than she did. Maybe she shouldn't have forced him to come.

  The organ broke into the final hymn. Violet tried to gather her thoughts and focus them on the text of the hymn. She might as well have stayed in the dormitory for all the good chapel had done her.

  * * * * *

  The noise from downstairs finally broke Jeff's concentration. It hadn't been very good anyway, not since he'd gone to chapel services. He was still irritated he'd lost time from his work. He was irritated he'd let Violet trick him into going, furious about the sermon. The minister had practically glared at him the entire time. He didn't know the sanctimonious little bastard's name, but he had a good mind to have him sacked.

  Another series of squeals, thuds of running feet, and a barrage of shrill, pre-adolescent voices shattered any remaining shred of calm. The last figures flew out of Jeff's head and refused to be recaptured. Uttering a particularly colorful oath he'd picked up from Monty, he pushed the table aside and got up.

  He looked out the window. It was a little overcast, but the temperature was above normal, the wind calm. It was a fine afternoon to be out and about. He hoped his clerks were taking advantage of the day. He meant to keep their noses to the grindstone all next week.

  Jeff turned away from the window, but there was nothing except his work to engage his interest. He was tired of that. He had slept nearly four hours last night and didn't feel tired. Just impatient, frustrated, and irritable, like he was being held back from something he wanted to do. Only he didn't know what.

  He left his room. He walked to the end of the hall and looked out the window. From this height he could see his house on Fourteenth Street. Some of the homes in the newly fashionable area of Capital Hill were visible, particularly Philip and Clara Rabins' monstrous house. He could also see the spot Horace Tabor was preparing for the house he meant to build.

  Madison's home was out on the plain a mile beyond the end of Broadway. Fern had insisted he build outside Denver where she had enough space to ride her horses. Not that he'd given her time. She'd been pregnant or nursing ever since they moved from Chicago. Now Madison found himself sitting on a huge piece of real estate that would one day be worth a fortune. Jeff never ceased to marvel how everything Madison touched seemed to turn to gold.

  He noticed a family walking down the sidewalk in front of the school. Two small boys held onto their father's hands, pulling him this way and that, shouting and laughing. A woman walked sedately at his side pushing a carriage. Jeff was surprised to find he knew the man, had done business with him. He would never have suspected he took such an interest in his family. He was a hard man to do business with. Yet here he was looking like he'd be unable to deny his family anything they wanted.

  The scene had the unaccountable effect of reminding Jeff of his own loneliness. He wondered if Violet missed having a family. She was surrounded by more than enough children now, but surely that wasn't the same as having her own.

  She'd said she didn't want to get married, that she wanted to help women like herself. He wondered if that would compensate her for the family most women seemed to want so badly.

  Something drew his attention to the fact the building had fallen silent. Listening intently, he couldn't catch even the slightest sound. He turned back to his room, but he wasn't in the mood to go back to work. He was curious as to why the building was quiet after sounding like a battlefield all afternoon.

  When he reached the landing below, he found the second floor empty. All the doors stood open, light pouring into the hall, but not a sound.

  The hall of the main floor was just as quiet. For a moment Jeff wondered if the quarantine had been ended early. No, he would be the one to leave, not the girls.

  He opened the door to the room on the right side of the hall. Beth was setting the table for the evening meal. She looked startled when she looked up and saw him.

  "I'm looking for Violet, Miss Goodwin," he said, unable to think of any other reason for being downstairs at this time.

  "She's across the hall supervising study period," Beth told him. "Since the quarantine's over tomorrow, the girls will have to go back to class."

  He closed the door, crossed the hall, and opened the only door he saw. Instead of being filled with tables, the room was filled with desks. A girl sat at each, a book open in front of her. Violet was standing at the front of the room next to a blackboard with about a dozen names written on it.

  "It's Mr. Randolph," Essie said. "Can you help me with my arithmetic?"

  "I need help, too," Aurelia said, "and he's my uncle."

  "Come on in, Mr. Randolph," Violet said. "You're just in time to help us with our lesson on the
Civil War."

  Chapter Ten

  Jeff's survival instincts were nearly as good as George's, and they were in full cry. The message was unmistakable: retreat, run for you life. You're entering a mine field; you'll never come out alive. The enemy has his heavy artillery aimed at your heart, and you're standing here in nothing but your shirttail.

  But Jeff also had the instinctive response of an old war horse. Once the smell of battle was in his nostrils, he could no more avoid the conflict than he could refuse to draw breath. He felt his body grow tense, the sweat pop out on his forehead. Just thinking about it brought back all the horror of those awful years. He could smell the blood, hear the scream of canon balls, see the carnage all round him, taste the grit that filled the hair, feel the scorching heat of the big guns.

  He could also see the faces of the dead and maimed, faces of friends, of men who had sacrificed their lives, the flower of Southern manhood reduced to bloody meat. The cruel injustice of it all rose in his throat like bile.

  "I've done my history," Essie complained.

  "Maybe Mr. Randolph will help you when he's finished talking to the class. It's not often we get to learn about a war from a man who actually took part in it. He's a relative of General Robert E. Lee. Maybe he can tell us why the general did everything he could to prolong the war."

  Jeff's shocked gaze riveted itself on Violet.

  "Our father fought in the war," Juliette volunteered, "but he never talks about it. He's got a sword he keeps in his office. He won't tell us about that, either."

  "That was his officer's sword," Jeff explained, his mystified gaze still on Violet.

  "Why don't you begin by telling us the causes of the war?" Violet asked.

  She didn't seem like the same woman he'd been talking to these last few days. It wasn't a matter of being angry or unfriendly. She seemed to have changed into somebody cold and remote.

  "It was a question of state's rights," Jeff began. "The southern states believed they had the right to decide their own destiny. When they no longer wanted to be part of the United States, they felt they had the right to secede."

  "What's secede?" Essie wanted to know.

  "Break off and start their own country," Violet explained.

  "Do you mean Texas would be in a different country from Colorado?" Juliette asked.

  "It would have been if the South had won the war," Violet said.

  "Wyoming, too?" Aurelia asked.

  "Yes."

  The twins looked at each other. "I wouldn't like it if Uncle Monty lived in a different country," Juliette said.

  "You would have been able to go back and forth," Jeff said, "like we do with Mexico."

  "Papa won't let us go to Mexico," Juliette said. "He said it's not safe for daughters of rich American ranchers."

  Jeff had the feeling control of the situation was slipping away from him before he even started. He looked at Violet, but her expression hadn't changed.

  "That has nothing to do with why the war started," Jeff said.

  "What about the slaves?" Violet asked.

  The tone of her voice was warning enough. It told him of her anger, buried and carefully controlled, but as deep and abiding as his own.

  "Isn't it true the South started the war because they wanted to keep their slaves and their huge plantations? Isn't it true all the talk about states rights was just to cover the real reason they were willing to fight such a long, bloody war?"

  There it was, the attack he had been expecting, the one he'd seen in her eyes from the moment he entered the room. He knew she wasn't his friend now.

  "That may have been true of some people, but most Southerners didn't own slaves. We didn't. We didn't have a plantation either. We lived on a dirt ranch in Texas with barely enough to eat, hardly enough money to buy bullets to fight off the rustlers, bandits, and Indians."

  She looked surprised. She hadn't expected that. She was just like everybody else from Massachusetts. They thought every Southerner had hundreds of slaves, did nothing but drink mint juleps all day and gamble or go to parties every night. Violet should have seen his mother the way he remembered her that day he left for the war, her dress stained, her hair dry and lifeless, her skin burned and cracked.

  "Girls, go on with your reading," Violet said. "We'll discuss it when you finish. Mr. Randolph and I will continue our discussion outside. I'll be in the hall if you need me."

  She was still coldly angry. Jeff wondered what she wanted to say that couldn't be said in front of the students.

  "You know the South fought the war because of slaves," Violet hissed the minute she closed the door behind her. "There was no other reason."

  "I wouldn't have risked my life so other men could keep their slaves," Jeff answered, his voice as angry as hers.

  "What about your plantation in Virginia?" She confronted him in the empty hall, their voices echoing from one end to the other.

  "Our land was rented out. Anybody who worked for us received a wage."

  "Then why did you fight?" she asked. She sounded genuinely confused. "Surely you didn't think the South would be better off as a separate country."

  He had thought so, but he had thought they could achieve their aims without fighting a war. He had said so to his father. His angry reply still had the power to thunder in his ears.

  You only think that because you're a coward. You're afraid to fight because you know you won't measure up. You've always been a weakling. The twins have more guts than you.

  He had tried to forget that day, to block it completely from his memory, but nineteen years later it still remained as vivid as the moment it happened. He could remember the anger and the hatred he felt for his father. The bastard didn't care about his son, only that the family name shouldn't be disgraced. Jeff had never understood why being a wastrel, a liar, a drunk, a seducer, a man so vile his neighbors had paid to have him leave the state, could possibly be less disgraceful than not wanting to fight.

  You're afraid some Yankee will shoot you. If you don't fight, I'll shoot you myself.

  Jeff never doubted his father would have done exactly that. He had killed his best friend, and he only had one of those. He had seven sons.

  "I did think we'd be better off as a separate country," Jeff answered finally.

  "Do you feel that way now?"

  Jeff found it difficult to say what he felt now. One part of him wanted to shout that the South would have been better off dead than yoked with the North, that the war had killed everything good and worthwhile.

  But the banker in Jeff was prepared to argue loudly that the South would have been at a grave economic disadvantage if it had had to survive on its own.

  "In my heart, I wish we were free. The North may be stronger and richer, but they didn't share either their strength or wealth with us. You only had to live through Reconstruction to know how much they hated us."

  "You sound like a man who holds dearly to his prejudices."

  "It's just like a Yankee to equate beliefs they can't share with prejudice. I won't be talked out of what I believe by anyone, but I wouldn't start a war to settle the differences."

  She moved a few steps closer to him. "You don't sound like a man who believes in war."

  "I don't." He never had. "It's a stupid way to try to settle an argument. The outcome has nothing to do with what's right and wrong, only who's stronger. The problems still exist." He couldn't help but look at his empty sleeve. "And it's a stupid waste of men. It ruins so many lives."

  He'd volunteered only because his father shamed him into it. But what he couldn't come to grips with was the knowledge he was such a lousy soldier. George had come through four years without a scratch. He even reached the rank of captain without having been to military school.

  Jeff had been wounded and captured, his squadron wiped out at Gettysburg. He had been struggling to make up for his feeling of failure ever since.

  "You know slavery was the real reason for the war," Violet persisted, the an
ger in her voice dispersing his own thoughts. "Your family might not have had slaves -- maybe most Southerners didn't -- but the people who made the decisions did." She moved closer to him, an angry glitter in her eyes.

  "There were lots of other reasons we wanted to secede," Jeff said, angry she couldn't see past that one issue. "For one, your merchants were strangling us."

  "You would have strangled anyway," she said, using her hands in big, circling gestures that showed her anger more than her voice or expression. "Your economy depended on unlimited virgin land which you could exploit, and an unlimited market for cotton which you glutted in your desire for more and more money."

  "We had no monopoly on exploitation. Hundreds of Yankee fortunes were made on the slave trade. When that was outlawed, you exploited the poor and their children under murderous factory conditions; you raped the land for its mineral wealth. If you want to see how it's done, go see what they've done to the mountains outside of Leadville."

  "You're talking around the issue," Violet countered. "The South was wrong, and they knew it. They were fighting to hold on to a morally indefensible position. They tried to cover it up by running away -- seceding if that's what you want to call it -- but they only succeeded in starting a war that killed hundreds of thousands of fine, beautiful men. And I hold Robert E. Lee responsible as much as anyone."

  He had started to turn away, to go back upstairs. But at that, he turned back, so surprised he almost forgot his anger. "How on earth can you hate the most respected man besides Lincoln to emerge from that bloody mess?"

  "Because he was too good a soldier, too admirable a man. He should have fought for the Union. He was in the Union army."

  "No, he was in the United States Army. He resigned before it became the Union Army."

  "He resigned so he could fight for a cause he didn't even believe in."

  They were standing nose to nose, shouting at each other like irate dock hands.

  "He believed in Virginia and its right to secede."

  "If he had led the Union army instead, the war would have been over in one battle. You would still have your arm. My brother would still be alive."