Return to Shirley Plantation

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

Matthew broke out in a sweat. He shook hands with the men under the covered portico.

  Hill Carter patted his arm firmly. “Shame Matthew here can’t serve—he has spells, worse even than Hilly ever had. But he can help tend the wounded.”

  “Hilly’s right behind me. Fit as a fiddle, too. Speaking of which—do you still have my old banjo here? I’d like to play later.”

  A dizzy episode commenced and Matthew had to grab the gray coated arm of Carter’s nephew to avoid falling. Hill Carter’s firm hand cupped his elbow. His vision cleared and Angelina’s eyes, glittering in the sun, were wide, frightened—but for him or some other reason? Julian’s words came back to him… Were she and the children slaves? His Abolitionist mother’s daguerreotypes came to mind—of white children enslaved in Virginia.

  “Angelina, would you accompany Matthew back? Best he lies down. I’m going to bring my nephew up to date on our doings here at Shirley.”

  She’d not been able to meet Matthew Scott’s eyes when she’d gotten him to the Old House. Thankfully, he’d laid down for a rest. She’d used the opportunity to speak with Dr. Neill, who’d arrived with Mason Jeffries, a Carter nephew. The physician knew her only as Angelina Rose, seamstress from Richmond. He possessed the good sense to not inquire why she was at Shirley Plantation. She’d breathed a sigh of relief when he inquired about his sister’s traveling gown. And was willing to pay as soon as she finished.

  Angelina attempted to organize the pattern of her life again. If she could obtain one more gown order and receive payment, she’d have the full amount to pay off the Carters for her niece and nephew’s freedom. With manumission papers in hand for all of them, could she travel North? Dare she risk it? She set about turning the parlor into her workroom and retrieved Miss Neill’s ensemble, already partially constructed.

  Angelina’s hands shook as she carefully pressed pins into the jacket for Tara Neill, of Yorktown, who lived under Union occupation. Dr. Neill intended to have the outfit sent to Tara as a gift, sparing her the expense.

  Thank God for Matthew, who had carried the dress form and her sewing machine over from above the laundry the previous evening. She ran her hands over the heavy brown fabric and frowned. Such dowdy fabric and color for such a lovely woman. Was Tara, like herself, trying to avoid notice? Of course—especially if she intended to travel, perhaps south to Florida where her wealthy sweetheart lived. Tara had obtained a special pass of protection to depart. If only she and the children possessed such a voucher.

  “Aunt Angie, can I help?” Charity touched the brass crane pin cushion, screwed onto Angelina’s worktable.

  “Oh, yes…” Angelina had almost forgotten Charity, who rested atop a settee nearby.

  Thankfully the Confederate army had sufficient help to tend to the union soldiers and she’d been given a reprieve. For now. But her chance for passage North had once again slipped through her fingers.

  Tears dripped down onto the fabric remnants in her lap. “Come here, girl.”

  Charity wrapped a thin arm around Angelina.

  “Stand back.”

  Her light eyes reflected hurt but she complied. Standing, Angelina held the fabric against Charity’s back. She’d been performing their charade in several fussy dresses but Angelina hadn’t the heart to put the child back into her house slave clothes which hadn’t been replaced since the war began.

  “How about you cut these pieces out to make you a new skirt?”

  Her grin was quickly chased away by a wobbling frown. “What about Julian?”

  Angelina waited for an explanation but none came.

  “Aren’t you gonna make him some clothes for our trip north?”

  She couldn’t reply—it was as though her tongue had been pinned to the roof of her mouth.

  Her niece folded the pieces of cloth and moved close again. “When we leavin’, Auntie Angie? Those men, they want to keep us slaves. I’m scared we never gonna get free.”

  Pulling the child into her embrace, the two wept together. And Angelina prayed.

  A knock interrupted her entreaties to God.

  The door to the house opened.

  “Just me, Angelina—Hilly.”

  “And me!” Mary B.’s laughter carried to the back room.

  Angelina sucked in a breath. Always before, Hilly’s presence had the effect of bringing order to the household. His strong faith had a way of quieting nerves and inspiring hope. She chewed her lip. Had she allowed him to unduly influence her decision? Isaac and Phillip had scolded her before they swam to the gunboats, to freedom. You shoulda gone, girl, instead of listenin’ to that white man. No, she couldn’t blame anyone but herself. She didn’t even blame God. Blaming accomplished nothing.

  Charity ran to Hilly as he entered the room. She stopped when Mary B.’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Mr. Hilly, you home now?”

  The stairs softly creaked, behind mother and son.

  After taking several steps toward her, Hilly halted. “I owe you an apology, Angie. I didn’t think war would break out.”

  He ran a hand back through his thick dark hair. “Everything happened so fast—Lorena’s death, the contract we procured for you, and then this war breaking out and no one could accompany you.”

  Mary B. placed a hand on her son’s arm. “What’s done is done.”

  “Mama’s right.”

  Angelina chewed her lower lip. “I was making so much money from orders, I thought I could more quickly pay off the debt.” Never mind that the children were son and daughter of a local businessman who could have compensated the Carters. Part of her wondered why they should be compensated at all. Her ire rose at the thought that she, their free aunt, offered to care for them but Mr. Carter hadn’t released them to her. Mrs. Roat thought it best that she go to Shirley and build a relationship with her niece and nephew before she hauled them off to Ohio. She appreciated the wisdom in that advice.

  Mary B. shrugged then sighed. “Angie, if you don’t mind, Cousin Mason has some mendin’ he needs done. And I need Charity and Julian to help in the kitchen for all those hungry boys we’ve got to feed.”

  Hilly’s apologetic smile did little to remove the sting of being reminded that she was a servant. These children, slaves.

  Soft steps sounded on the carpet in the hallway and the Carters swiveled to look behind them.

  “Lt. Carter?” Matthew Scott’s voice carried. “You look well.”

  “What are you doing here, Scott? Why didn’t you go with the Union army?”

  Angelina caught his eyes, full of love, as he met hers. Guilt cinched her like a too-tight corset. She had to tell him soon.

  Chapter 6

  Six days tending the Confederate soldiers taxed Matthew. But he had the benefit of beginning and ending each day with Angelina and the children. Every minute he spent with them increased his desire to protect them. Her family clearly did not provide the emotional support she needed. Carter relations seemed to think they could simply drop their mending off with her night and day despite the fact that Angelina nursed soldiers in the field hospital and had children to tend to.

  If they were invited up to the Big House for a meal, he might say something. He intended to discuss his irritation with Angelina that evening. Now, though, they must finish the task of burying the dead. How long would they lie there? What would their loved ones do? At least they could be identified now when they were disinterred.

  Matthew finished burying the last of the Union deceased. Angelina had sewn all of the names into the jackets in a beautiful gold metallic thread that contrasted against the lining.

  Hilly Carter prayed, his mother standing alongside him, a handkerchief covering her sweet face. A godly woman and her son.

  The senior Hill Carter walked toward them, emerging from the Confederate encampment in his fields. He’d not revealed Matthew’s identity to the army. Yet.

  Mrs. Carter laid a gloved hand over her son’s arm, and he tucked her grasp inside its crook.

  �
�Thank God McClellan gave you a pass and protection, Mama—you may have need of it soon.”

  The plantation owner joined them and kissed his wife’s cheek.

  Mrs. Carter cast a meaningful glance at her son. “Do you have word?”

  “Some intelligence.”

  Face sagging in defeat, Hill Carter wiped at his brow. “I want to meet you up at the house, son, but first I wish to speak with Mister Scott.”

  Matthew felt his cheeks blanch, despite the hot humid day. Even the birds had ceased singing as the sun rose higher.

  Hilly Carter compressed his lips but then nodded in Matthew’s direction. “May God bless you as you seek His will for you, Mister Scott.”

  “Thank you.” He wished the same for the officer, but couldn’t manage the words.

  Mother and son strolled off toward a small carriage, its twin bay horses tethered nearby.

  Green eyes roamed Matthew’s face. “Bet you wonder why they haven’t taken you back to Richmond.”

  “Yes, sir, I have.” He removed his cap and shoved his hand through his slick hair. He sorely needed another bath. The James River washes weren’t sufficient. Perhaps that night he’d once again bathe in the laundry and use the fragrant bayberry soap Angelina had given him.

  “I was a naval officer. You are a noncombatant.”

  No. He had been a combatant. Fired on his own countrymen. Bile rose up in his throat.

  “We’ve word that the Union armies will soon arrive. Your opportunity to return home is nigh—that is if the officers in charge don’t take strong exception to your father and his political leanings.”

  Matthew cocked his head. “Sir, I greatly fear they shall.”

  The plantation owner nodded. “I’ve something else to share with you since you’ve become so fond of our Angelina.”

  The older man glanced around and Matthew followed his gaze. There was no one within a stone’s throw of them.

  “Angie refused a chance to go North when my wife gave her the opportunity.” His mouth tightened. “In fact, she was to have assisted with your theatrical troupe—with the stitching and so forth. I came across my records of the agreement only yesterday. My wife and I kept our word, we would have sent her, but she declined.”

  “With Scott’s Theatrical Troupe?” Now likely defunct.

  “She’s a freed woman and can make her own choices.”

  Freed woman? “You mean…”

  Those intent eyes fixed on Matthew’s again. “Angelina was a freed woman, living in Richmond, training to be a seamstress. Mighty fine one, too.”

  Matthew stretched his neck, suddenly stiff.

  Mr. Carter surveyed him with a slow deliberateness that caused Matthew to feel as though he’d just been judged. “Her owners in South Carolina gave manumission papers to Angie but not to Lorena. Mary and I purchased her sister, a good worker although she was too easily swayed by one of our local boys…” He rubbed his chin.

  Matthew swallowed. His Angelina had been a slave. “The children?”

  Mr. Carter gave him a look of warning.

  By rights they were his slaves. A sick feeling formed in Matthew’s gut. I have my own little acting troupe here at Shirley Plantation—one with a female lead acting the part of a Southern Belle and two slave children the part of her doting children. No wonder she hadn’t left. She must have needed to free the children.

  “It’s true.” Angelina’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the shield back of a cherrywood chair in the Flanker’s dining room.

  No wonder they’d had Angelina, the children, and him eat in the Old House while under Confederate occupation.

  His mother, if she yet lived—how would she receive a daughter-in-law who had been a slave? A woman of color. Yet Mother was a staunch Abolitionist. Would she stand by her convictions and accept a freed woman as his wife? And what about the children?

  “Feel free to reject me.” Despite her scowl, Angelina’s face remained beautiful. Perfect—as God had intended it to be.

  He twisted his handkerchief together. She’d accepted a contract with his company yet hadn’t fulfilled it. Could she not keep her word? “Why didn’t you come to Ohio and work for me?”

  “What?” Her lush lips fell open revealing her even teeth.

  “You were supposed to get on a train and arrive before my season began in 1861. What prevented you?”

  “I..the children of course.” Her brow wrinkled. “I couldn’t leave them.”

  Or was it something else? Like her affection for the Carter family and for Hilly Carter in particular. A married man. While Matthew shared her faith, he had great difficulty in understanding why she hadn’t come to Ohio and sent for the children later. But who was he to judge? He’d never been in her shoes, thank God.

  Chapter 7

  The first week of July had passed when new Union soldiers swept in with a determined efficiency. While Matthew should be relieved at the Confederates’ departure, he wasn’t sure the Union army would give him any assistance in returning home.

  Dr. Warrington Carter, who’d called him to the Great House, rose from the office settee, his medical satchel in hand. “Mister Scott, I believe Papa wants you to write your Mama—believes we’ll be able to get mail North now. And while I greatly value your assistance with the wounded men, I’m not so sure Lieutenant Maher will.”

  “I see.”

  “Might be best for you to help elsewhere—I’m sure Papa can find work for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After waving a slim hand toward his father’s desk, Dr. Carter departed, almost silently, from the room. A gentleman’s gentleman, he seemed too genteel for what he was going out into. Matthew had almost adjusted to the continual moaning that emanated from the fields and carried on the humid winds.

  Now to ask his mother to petition the President. Had she already—for Father and himself?

  Matthew slid into the seat behind Mr. Carter’s mahogany desk. After gathering his writing implements he commenced. After he finished his letter, he dusted the missive with sand and allowed it to dry, chuckling at the thought of sealing it with an ornate brass crest from the Hill family from the late 17th century. Almost two hundred years old. This family had deep roots to the land and community. What of his past? Father’s silence on the subject deterred him from digging deeper.

  Glancing outside, his heart leapt as he caught sight of gold and bronze ringlets glowing in the sun as Angelina, head bent, lifted her skirts and jounced up the steps of the house.

  The heavy hall door opened and Matthew rose from the desk, his cheeks heating with anticipation of seeing her. And with the notion that somehow they could now put their differences aside and make plans to return to his troupe in Ohio. From there they could travel to the field hospitals and entertain the soldiers. He’d not let war kill his dreams.

  The door swung in. “Matthew. Mr. Scott…” Angelina’s flushed face and quick breaths alarmed him.

  He closed the distance between them and grasped her shoulders. “What is it?”

  She looked up at him, her blue-gray eyes wet. “Granny is dying.”

  “I’m so sorry. But I thought you had no family here, other than the children.” He handed her his handkerchief and she wiped her nose.

  “You don’t understand.”

  A hazy recollection of the strange woman who’d spoken with him at the field hospital, when he’d been so ill, returned to him now.

  Angelina boldly grasped his hand and pulled him into the hall. Mrs. Carter, her arms full of bedsheets earmarked for bandages, blinked at them.

  “It’s Granny,” Angelina called over her shoulder. As though that should explain.

  “I’ll join you shortly.”

  They strode on through field after field of tents, soldiers, medical personnel, and the stench of death. Yet Matthew’s heart ascended. The freed woman declared her affections for him by walking hand in hand with him through the plantation—the men’s jealous glances affirming so. Matthew
glanced down at her, admiring the way her lips set in determination and her chin jutted ever so slightly.

  “Can you tell me about Granny?”

  Glittering eyes flashed at him as though he ought to know, but he didn’t. An ache formed at his temple. “I need to take it a little slower, please.”

  She halted and released his hand. “I’m sorry, I forgot—you’ve been doing so well.”

  “Yes, I have.” He wiped his brow with the sleeve of Hilly Carter’s summer suit, a crisp tan linen given to him by the man before the southern troops had hastily departed ahead of the Union’s return to Shirley Plantation.

  “Ready?” The way her lips puckered, lured him closer. “I’ll keep your pace, Matthew.”

  “I prefer Matt. After all, I shall convince you to marry me.” He offered her what he hoped was a charming grin.

  “Matt, then.” She smiled, her lips only a breath away. So close, if he leaned down, he could kiss her right there, right at the edge of the Union encampment.

  Several soldiers walked past and laughed as they took in Matthew and Angelina.

  The “Widow Carter” appeared much more attractive in dusky rose than in black. And with the alterations she’d managed on Louisa Carter’s hand-me-downs, the effect was startling.

  “Come on.” He tucked her arm in his and they strode on as though all the world might know she was his and he was her beloved. But he’d not yet shared the words with her. Till now.

  He swallowed. They passed the end of the row upon row of tents, Angelina’s gaze fixed on the far-off slave cabins.

  “Angelina, I love you.”

  “What?” She paused.

  “I said I love you. And I want to marry you.”

  Thick dark lashes beat like hummingbird’s wings. “Even though…”

  “Sh…” he pressed a finger to her lips, warm beneath his touch. “It doesn’t matter. All I care about is whether you’ll come with me. Marry me.” He’d have knelt right there in the mucky field were he not in Lt. Carter’s suit.

  Angelina rolled her lips together and began to cry. She took his hand and again tugged him onward. Was that her answer? Was she refusing him?